Lay My Weapons Down
by LuisaRay
Summary: Four years after losing John, the Tracys are continuing to rebuild their lives and save others in his honour. Little do they know they are being watched.
1. Prologue

**Hello, lovely people. This is my second multi-chapter fic. It's connected to my earlier one, 'Even as a Shadow, Even as a Dream'. Think of it as a part two. It's all based on the original series and covers John's death.**

 **Please check that one out first as everything will make more sense. It's by no means essential though, just preferable. Must again mention 'afterlife' for it's additional inspiration.**

 **I hope you like it. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated x**

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"Alan, she's getting away!"

"Stop worrying, I got her," groaned Alan, not even bothering to look behind him.

Scott followed Alan through the throng of people, trying to keep his little niece in sight as she toddled ahead. It was a beautiful summer's day. They were taking a couple of days off after a particularly quiet stint at Tracy Island, to belatedly celebrate Janna's first birthday. At the hotel that morning, Alan had sent Tin-Tin off for a much needed spa treatment. He promised that he and Scott would he fine on their own with Janna for a couple of hours.

When they reached the city pier, it was bustling with activity. The source of the hive of people seemed to be some sort of funfair, Scott noted with a touch of dismay. It quickly faded when Alan turned to look at him, Janna now on his shoulders to stop her escape attempts. Her feathery black hair swished about her face as she patted her father's head like a bongo.

"Oh, yes!" Alan almost squealed, "Come on, Scott, it's got our names written all over it! What do you think, Janna? Look. That's called a Ferris wheel."

Sometimes the years could just fall away when Alan looked like that, like an excited school kid. His smile was bright, his golden hair shining in the summer sun. Scott was constantly having to remind himself his little brother was now twenty-five, married and a father. He still saw him as a teenager. He couldn't help but smile as they walked past the stalls and rides, bringing back fond memories of days out with all his brothers. He felt a surge in his chest when he got a memory of John at thirteen, who had developed a fascination for the spinning tunnel at a funfair. Scott grew bored of it quickly, disliking the vertigo, but John was fascinated by the rotating, colourful lights. It had been four years since they'd lost him and his absence didn't hurt any less.

 _Miss you, John_ , Scott said inwardly as his eyes glanced skyward. He always did that when he thought of him.

By late afternoon, Alan had already won little Janna a purple teddy as big as she was. She was delighted by all the sights, pointing and babbling at everything they passed. Pretty soon, the little one was due her nap. They found Tin-Tin walking along the pier, pushing the waiting stroller. Tin-Tin looked well rested as she relieved the brothers of the sleepy toddler and giant teddy. She decided to head back to the hotel, encouraging them to have some quality time of their own.

They were walking into the town centre to do just that when a poster on a pub door caught Alan's eye. It was monochrome, focusing on the face of a woman in her forties. The poster read -

 **Raewyn Murray**

 **Clairvoyant Psychic**

 **Parting the Veil Between the Living and the Dead**

 **3pm, EVERY WEEKDAY**

"Hmm..." said Alan thoughtfully, glancing at his watch.

Scott couldn't help but scoff. "Come on, Alan. You're not interested in that crap, are you?"

Alan looked up at him, smiling boldly, "You said you wanted a drink. Why not check it out?"

"Because she's a money-grubbing fraud, that's why. Just like every so-called psychic out there. They prey on the needs of those that are grieving. Vulnerable."

The venom in Scott's words made Alan's expression change to one of curiosity. "Since when did you become such a sceptic?"

The genuine surprise in Alan's tone almost made Scott snap back, _'I've been a sceptic since Mom, didn't you know?'_ but the words died in his throat. Alan wouldn't know, because they've never discussed anything spiritual together. He knew Virgil and John shared his sceptism. They once theorised that if there was ever a way to talk to the living, Mom would've found it. She didn't. Therefore all three of them knew that life after death couldn't possibly exist.

Still, humouring Alan wouldn't hurt either of them. The kid had been lucky enough to have escaped the smothering grief of their mother's death, which certainly didn't outweigh the blessing of having known her. Scott swallowed and softened his expression guiltily, "I didn't mean to snap at you like that. It's just... I'm yet to be convinced, you know?"

Alan nodded slowly, "So... You're interested?"

"Yeah, why not?"

The pub was bigger on the inside than the exterior indicated. It was nice enough, but was lit only by dozens of red candles on the tables and the lining bar. There was a spotlight in one corner of the room, where no doubt the psychic would be starting her show soon. Scott and Alan both bought a beer and sat at a table near the back wall, furthest from the tiny stage. Most of the tables were already full.

A waitress approached asking if they needed anything, offering them each a small white card.

"I'll be back to collect them in a moment," she smiled, before handing out more cards to some of the newcomers.

Scott took a look at the card and groaned. _You've got to be kidding?_ Written on it was a few lines with the prompts -

 **Name -**

 **Date of birth -**

 **Who do you wish to contact? -**

"Unbelievable," sighed Scott. He glanced up to see Alan was already filling out his card, "What are you doing?"

"I'm doing what it says," said Alan simply.

Scott could see he'd already written his name and birthday. He tapped his brother's hand to stop him, "Don't fill it in."

"Why?"

"Because..." _Because this is how she'll steal information from everyone before she even begins. Once she's pulled the name out of 'thin air', all she has to do from there is cold reading,_ "Because it's no fun making it too easy for her, is it?"

Alan paused and glanced up at Scott, looking like that lost teenager again. "I just wanted to... I hoped to make contact with John. You know?"

"Well, I agree with you there. But still, don't fill it out. Leave out John's name, at least. See if she's the real deal."

This seemed to appease Alan. "Alright, then."

After the waitress had collected their cards and they began their second beers, the show began. No theatrics or cheesy music, Scott was relieved to see. The waitress merely stood up to the microphone and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please give a warm welcome to Raewyn Murray."

There was a scattering of applause as a tall woman stepped into the spotlight and up to the microphone. She was looking suitably disheveled for the role. Her short brown hair was a scruffy nest and her eyes were blackened heavily with eyeliner. She rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously, smiling as the applause died down.

"Thank you very much. I hope you've all been enjoying the sunshine. I certainly have, it's especially nice seeing lots of children out playing on the pier. I see a few new faces among us, always good to see..."

The small talk continued until she stopped with a little sigh, going as still as a statue. Her mouth moved silently as she 'conversed' with an invisible someone a few feet from her. Scott couldn't help but snort softly at the amatuer dramatics, which earned him a kick in the shin from Alan.

Raewyn approached a table where a lone woman sat, who looked to be in her twenties. Raewyn's eyes were warm, her voice mellow and hypnotic as she said, "In November, she was gone. Wasn't she?"

The young woman looked startled and when she recovered, gave an enthusiastic nod, "Yes, my grandmother."

 _Here we go... Tell her everything..._ Scott wondered if there were listening devices around the pub to get information from, as well as the cards.

"Susan, wasn't it?" continued Raewyn, "She was like a mother to you, wasn't she? No, no... She doesn't want you to cry. Don't cry. She says she was there when your daughter laughed at you for the first time, she saw it. She says she's watching you both and she's very proud of you."

The woman was weeping softly, murmuring 'thank you' between sobs as Raewyn moved on to the next person.

Scott half listened to the atrocity as the woman continued to weave her way though the different people. He had to admit that she was a good performer and knew how to captivate her audience. He noticed Alan was certainly enthralled, even tearing up at one point (not that he would ever admit to it). Maybe that was the effect of the beer. He let his thoughts drift away as he regarded the dark brew in his pint glass. He was startled out of his reverie when he noticed Raewyn was looking directly at him.

"You two, back there. The gentleman with the gray jacket, next to the blond man?"

Alan went tense as he realised Scott was being addressed, his face bright with intrigue. Scott fleetingly felt his eyes roll up in disgust. _Ugh, here we go._ He gave a curt nod to show he was listening. Raewyn seemed unperturbed by his unenthusiastic reaction and continued.

"I just have to say... There's... There's a man standing behind you. He's very striking looking, a young man, he's got..."

She squinted up at the space behind Scott, at the empty air past his right shoulder. The corners of her mouth twitched into a smile.

"He has a great face, he's smiling at me. He's dressed in blue, a very bright blue, he's... He's telling me hasn't got the sash, but it's ok, he's got it in a different place. Does that make any sense?"

Scott felt the back of his neck tingle, but didn't let any reaction cross his features. He was perfectly aware of Alan's startled gaze upon him as he slowly, resolutely shook his head. The woman needed to try harder than that. She started making sweeping gestures, brushing back an imaginary fringe.

"He's got very nice hair, beautiful platinum hair. It's poking out from under his cap, his blue cap. He's saying... He's saying 'There's danger. There's danger.' He's repeating that now, he's telling me there's someone in trouble. Does that make sense?"

The woman was as sincere and warm as a person could be, her face full of sympathy. Scott felt anger smouldering in his chest like hot coals as he shook his head firmly. He didn't care that his rage was now plain on his face.

"No?" said Raewyn. She frowned up at him and gave a small shrug, "OK. He's standing right behind you. It's like he's protecting you. He's so close to you, so much love there. He's saying... He's..."

She faltered and froze. _Run out of facts_ , thought Scott smugly, as she lowered her gaze from his and spoke into the mic sheepishly, "I'm sorry, folks, but I think we need to call it a day. Thank you."

With that, she turned her back on her audience, who soon started to mutter confusedly. All except the two Tracy brothers, who were glued to their seats, staring over at the stage with wide eyes.

"She knew..." Alan breathed, "How? How could she have known about-"

"Don't get excited. She saw a picture of him," muttered Scott darkly, "The media covered John's death. You know that."

"There wasn't a name or a picture, nobody would know that" said Alan heatedly, "And the sash! How could she have known about the sash? You can't dismiss this, Scott. You just can't."

Scott shook at his head at him. It was all very well played, well acted out. He had to admit that much. He did acknowledge inwardly that the detail of the sash had been an alarming one. How did she know about that? The only people that knew his sash was gone were those that attended the private family funeral. On Gordon's boat. Surrounded by miles of ocean. Four years ago. He needed to know why this woman knew this detail. Who had she been talking to?

"I need to speak with her," said Scott, his tone authoritative, "Go back to the hotel, to Tin-Tin. I'll meet you there."

"But, I want to know-"

"Now, Alan," said Scott, harsher than was necessary. He reached out to gently take Alan's forearm as he stood, looking into his eyes, "Best not mention this to anyone, ok?"

Alan's flinty gaze softened at the unspoken apology in his brother's voice, "Alright, Scott. See you at the hotel."

Scott watched Raewyn as she moved about near the bar, pacing and taking sips of water from a plastic bottle. He waited until Alan had left before he approached her. She looked at him kindly, despite the dark expression he was no doubt wearing.

"I'm Scott," he said shortly.

"Raewyn," she said, "I'm sorry I-"

He cut her off, "Don't bother with niceties. I just need to know who fed you that information. How did you get it?"

Raewyn cleared her throat and adjusted her jacket, clearly affronted, "I was just about to say I stopped when I saw the uniform. I knew it was International Rescue. After that, I felt I shouldn't say any more, in case..."

"In case you get sued?" said Scott sharply, "I don't know how you did it, but you'd best tell me or-"

"He told me he hated the box," blurted Raewyn, her voice trembling with urgency, "He wanted to talk to you properly, the last time he saw you. It upsets him that he never got to. They put the baby in a box, he was there to help her sleep. He's also told me about someone with a name with a V in it. I can picture him, tall and muscular. John's saying he'll always walk beside him. He really wanted you to know that."

Scott felt his breathing change, his mind being brought back to a dark time he never wanted to return to. His head was swimming. He knew he would get no answers here.

"Go to Hell," he snarled, as he turned his back to her and headed for the door.

"He misses you, too!" Raewyn yelled after him.

Scott stopped at the door to glare back at her, furious tears in his eyes, "You creeps really know how to do your research."

He slammed the door shut behind him.


	2. Sweet Tooth

**This is Robert's last POV chapter, as this story won't be about him.**

 **Also this is technically Chapter One. That first bit was just a little evil foreshadowing :D**

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Thousands of miles above Earth, cloaked and invisible, was the space station named Thunderbird Five. It's sole occupant, Robert Tracy, emerged into the darkened main console room. He sipped his coffee, his thick black hair still damp from the shower. He was looking immaculate in his bright blue uniform complete with crimson sash. He checked his watch and knew it was time to imitate the morning. Time meant nothing up here, but to make life easier for himself he kept his day running in synchronisation with his home below.

He hit a couple of buttons that brightened the lights and opened the anti-glare windows, allowing him to glimpse the stars. Earth was full of colour, glowing and bright. It always brought to reminded him of a globe lamp he once owned as a child.

A sweeping glance at the console reassured him all was well so far. It had been a relatively quiet night. There was an incident where some amatuer divers off the Caribbean coast had got into difficulties, but all Robert had to do was alert the local coastguard. There had been no casualties. All in all, he had gotten five hours of unbroken sleep, topped up with another two after the emergency call. A new record.

It had been four years and five months since John Tracy had passed away, the man he had thought he would spend the rest of his life with. Early on, his grief manifested in occasional bouts of insomnia. Nowadays, any lack of sleep was a sure indicator of stress. He had been checked out for depression when training for IR, but knew that often he was walking on a tightrope when it came to his sanity. He had been all his life. Virgil understood. He was probably the only one that did. He was relieved that he was so at peace he could now sleep as easily as he once did as a teenager.

He smiled as he thought of Virgil, the light in his life. He had been blessed enough to have been loved once and certainly didn't expect to find it again. It was Virgil who took him to Italy and (in a ceremony officiated by Scott) married him. Robert changed his surname from Christie to Tracy. One girls name to another, as Gordon once correctly pointed out.

He had last seen Virgil about twenty hours ago. There had been no calls to interrupt their private goodbyes in his room. Even though they had now been together for over three years, they were still learning about each other. Virgil was intensely private in the beginning, for a variety of reasons. Their relationship had begun under strange circumstances, having lost a lover and a brother the year before. Even now, happily married, Virgil would never kiss in public or even in front of the family. It would be easy to assume he was physically shy but Robert could vouch that behind closed doors that was not the case. It wasn't a matter of shame or self-consciousness. He was just extremely old fashioned. Gentlemanly. Robert liked that.

When he got up to Five yesterday morning, he found out why Virgil seemed so pleased with himself when he left. When he arrived on the station, Alan led him to the food storage area. He explained he'd been asked to take up a huge cardboard box with Robert's name on it. They discovered the box contained a treasure trove of sweets and biscuits - Milky Bars, peppermint creams, butter candies, Cadbury caramels, Black Jacks, custard creams, Minstrels, Jammie Dodgers, Maltesers, Aeros, Galaxy bars... Robert had a deadly sweet tooth and often complained to Virgil that the chocolate they got on Tracy Island never hit the spot. He had no idea how he got them all, as Alan had never seen 'candy' like it. Virgil may be a man of few words when it came to romance, but he could sometimes be (literally) the sweetest. He had gone to a lot of trouble find all those.

Robert was debating whether it would wise to dig into a packet of Jammie Dodgers for breakfast, when his thoughts were interrupted by a buzzing noise.

"Thunderbird Five from base. Come in, Robert."

Robert smiled as his father-in-law's face appeared on the display.

"Hello, Jeff."

"All the boys are here. What is it that had you so concerned earlier?"

Robert swigged the last of his coffee as he dug out the transmissions he recorded earlier, "I've been piecing together news from London. You're not going to like this..."


	3. London's Burning

Everyone was assembled in the lounge, all rescue workers anyway. The women of the island, including baby Janna, were all sound asleep in their rooms. Kyrano was busy in the kitchen. The smell of roasting Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee beans was wafting through into the lounge, making Virgil breathe deeply through his nose. He sat slouched beside Gordon, the pair of them having been rudely parted with their own beds. Scott was seated to their right, fully dressed. He had been awake for hours. Alan had his head in his arms, not even bothering to pretend he was listening.

Virgil saw Gordon's tired amber eyes regarding him sympathetically. "I hope this isn't what I think it is."

Virgil watched his flicked over to his husband's portrait, where his gaze was greeted with a smile. Rob was wide awake and ready to relay the news from over the video feed. Virgil felt his guts churn in anticipation. He could see his father felt it, too. It was just like last time.

"It's the exact same pattern as before, I'm afraid," said Robert, looking down gravely at the information printed before him and CCTV live feed, "The vehicle is identical to one that was in communication with the previous attackers. The area is residential and densely populated. Another worry is that they are completely blocking me from listening in on any transmissions, no matter what I do."

Jeff turned his head sharply to look at Brains, who was standing on the left of his desk, "I want you on that, need to hear if they're planning anything before we take action ourselves."

"I-I'll see what, uh, I can do, Mr Tracy," said Brains as he started to leave the lounge, no doubt to head for his lab.

The whole family listened to the news with growing dread. There had been two recent attacks in London involving car bombs, causing widespread damage in the city and thirty-one fatalities. International Rescue had been needed the second time as there were a couple of buildings that needed stabilising in order to allow a full evacuation. It was only then that an attempt to break into Thunderbird One had been noticed by Robert, yet before they could apprehend the culprit they had fled, lost in the chaos. Jeff was hopeful that it had nothing to do with the attacks in the city, but it had rattled them all.

The first person Virgil looked at after the news was Scott, as always. Something about these attacks was affecting his older brother deeply. He could tell under his neutral expression that his teeth were grinding. His skin was pale. Then again, if someone had tried to break into his 'Bird, he would be feeling murderous too. He then looked to his father and saw a familiar determined look cross his features as the wheels in his brilliant mind turned.

Virgil sighed, disgusted. They were no strangers to terrorism or threats, it's part of what they did. They were a peacekeeping organisation and the fact that people were potentially exploiting that to lure them out was both sickening and infuriating.

"What can we do, Virgil?" said Jeff kindly, as if reading his thoughts, "No matter what threat there is to us we have to answer."

"Of course, Father," said Virgil sadly, leaning forward in his chair, "It's the fact that innocent people are at risk because someone wants to get at us."

"Now, it's only a possibility," said Jeff, "There's no solid proof. Robert, I assume you've notified the British security services?"

"Yes, the Metropolitan police have their eyes on the vehicle," said Robert, "They're getting prepared to scan it and organise evacuations if necessary. They are curious as to why International Rescue are notifying them of this, though. It's not exactly in our job description. International Crime Watch."

Jeff gave a weary smile. "I'm sure they are. At least they're taking the information seriously. We'll keep quiet about our reasons for as long as we have to. Contact us as soon as you have more information."

Jeff's dark eyes scanned the room slowly. His gaze settled on Gordon but he addressed the whole room, "If this goes the way I think it will, you'll all be needed..."

He stopped short as a familiar soft pad-pad-pad noise approached from outside the room. It was just little Janna, crawling along the floor.

"Hey, baby," Alan said softly, his exhausted face lighting up, "Where's Mommy?"

She stopped to regard her father, uncles and Grandpa with her big, green eyes. She raised an acknowledging hand, yelled "Ba!" then resumed her determined crawling across the room.

"'Carry on, don't mind me'," Gordon translated, grinning.

"As I was saying..." said Jeff, his eyes following his granddaughter as she wandered past the front of his desk, "It's likely all of you will be needed out there."

There were several nods of agreement from all his sons, all except Alan, who was looking troubled. His eyes were on his daughter as she sat on the floor, trying to pull herself up against a couch.

"What do we do if they..." Alan asked, "If someone tries to take Thunderbird One again?"

This time Scott answered automatically, turning a stern gaze on his youngest brother, "You follow the procedure, Alan. At all times, the priority is to protect yourself and those around you. Use force to stop them only if it's safe to do so."

"Scott's right," said Jeff, "Brains has installed many devices that can hinder a potential thief. Even if they failed, a Thunderbird is a machine that can be replaced."

He didn't speak aloud what they all knew - you four can't be replaced. After John's death, so sudden and unexpected, it wasn't just Jeff that had gained a lot more grey hairs and wrinkles. Virgil exchanged looks with all his brothers, the silent unspoken agreement passed between them all. No more death.

Kyrano entered the lounge and was welcomed like a holy figure, for he was bearing a tray of coffee, sweet as nectar of the gods. Everyone took a mug and started milling out of the room. All except Virgil, Scott and Jeff.

His thoughts darkened by the potential attack, Virgil stood up to approach Scott, but one look in his eyes told him 'not now.' Rethinking his route, he casually bypassed his brother to sit at the piano. He wanted to keep working on a composition he'd made for Robert.

He worked through the cord progression slowly, feeling himself relax. He started humming along in his rich baritone. It wasn't often he sang to compositions, but this one was begging for it. He had no lyrics yet, just a basic tune.

After a couple of practices he noticed Scott was humming along with him in his rough but well-pitched tenor, harmonising softly. It was so quiet that Virgil had to strain to hear it, knowing his big brother would be extremely embarrassed to be caught singing. Little did he know that more than once he had left the comms on while flying in One, leaving Virgil with the secret knowledge that his brother had the potential of a decent singing voice, with a bit of tutoring.

Once he finished playing through the piece for the third time, Scott turned to look at him. There seemed to be a bit more light, an echo of his old spirit, in his face.

"That sounds beautiful, Virg."

"Thanks."

Before Virgil could touch the keys for another practice, his husband's portrait bleeped and his image appeared on the screen. The shocked sadness in his pale blue eyes informed Virgil of everything he needed to know. He saw his father take a deep breath at the desk, already formulating a plan of action.

"We were right," Robert sighed regretfully, "You should switch on the TV. It's bad."

Jeff hit the island alarms first to summon Alan and Gordon before he did so. The sight that met them on the television screen was one of utter devastation. The news was broadcasting am aerial shot of live pictures from London. There were people fleeing in all directions, with emergency service vehicles scrambling to get through. One of the residential buildings had already collapsed and another was ablaze.

Virgil heard the running footsteps if his brothers cease behind him. Alan swore bitterly under his breath. It was completely justified cursing but it still made Virgil flinch. The Tracys don't care much for swearing.

"One explosion couldn't have done all that damage. We need to get out there," said Jeff, "Be careful. Thunderbirds are go!"

Gordon and Alan briskly walked past Virgil to meet him in TB2. He smiled to himself as he strode to the painting at the end of the lounge that would take him to his 'Bird, knowing that the second they were out if sight his two little brothers would begin sprinting in their obligatory competition to get on Thunderbird Two first. He felt that for every two out of three times this happened, Gordon normally won.

He was just about to turn his back on the painting, when movement on the floor made him stop short. Sitting at the base of the portrait, pleased as punch, was Janna. His little niece grinned up at him, showing all her six white teeth.

"Vuh-doh? Vuh-doh?" she asked, ever so politely.

"Not until you're at least eighteen, honey," said Virgil warmly, his grin wide as he scooped up his little buddy and deposited her into her grandfather's waiting arms.

Jeff laughed as his niece gave a yell of protest, "I forgot how fast they learn. Wave, Janna."

Wasting no time, Virgil pressed his back to the painting and pressed the button that would tilt him horizontal. Just before he slid backwards down the chute to his 'Bird, he looked down at Janna's bright face and waved goodbye.

* * *

 **If you're curious about that kind of thing, the song Virgil is composing is 'End of All Things' by Panic at the Disco.**


	4. Spooked

"Talk to me, Virgil."

"We're ok, Scott. I'm helping Gordon with the last of the casualties."

Scott leaned back in the pilots seat of Thunderbird One, using the back of his hand to uselessly rub at the sweat and grime on his face.

He could see the late morning sun high in the sky outside his hatch. The attack had happened in the early evening in London's time and the Tracy brothers had worked tirelessly through the night. The fire and rescue services in London had proved to be far more prepared than in the previous attack. It still didn't make it any easier dealing with the massive loss of life. Scott groaned, feeling a huge tension headache beginning to brew, sending stabs of pain from between his eyes that shot around his skull like a bolt of lightning. He took a hissing breath before grabbing his microphone.

"Thunderbird Five from Thunderbird One," said Scott, "That's the boys finishing up at Cooper Hospital."

He thought a silent wish that they were done, that they had done all they could.

"OK, Scott," said Robert, "I think you can breathe now. It looks like the local services have everything in hand."

"Any news on who did this?"

"Nothing concrete," sighed Robert, "But no alarm bells this time, thank goodness."

"That's good, Rob," said Scott, "I'll update father for you. Get some rest."

"I'll rest only when you do," said Robert, "After all, I'm not doing the hard work."

Scott smiled, "Fine, then."

"I'll contact Jeff. Relax, you're looking wound up."

"Headache. I'll contact you when the boys are finished."

"FAB."

Scott knew from past experiences it could be just as taxing being helpless thousands of miles above the action. He felt his eyes vibrate in their sockets as his headache started creeping into migraine territory. He had to pull his eyes open against the daylight to answer his buzzing comms.

"Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Two. Come on, Scott. Answer me." Virgil was almost shouting, sounding uncharacteristically anxious.

"Here, Virgil! God, I just-"

"Oh, there you are! I thought you'd fallen asleep on us."

Scott tried and failed to ignore the laughter from Alan in the background. It's nice at least one of them had the energy for it.

"Yeah, yeah, it's been a long day... uh, night. Report, Virgil."

"All casualties have been safely transported into the hospital. Alan and I are almost-" Virgil began, but he was interrupted when Gordon's voice rang out over the comms.

"You two head back to Base," he said, chipper as ever, "Scott, can you give me another half hour? They're full to capacity here and could use an extra pair of hands."

Not that he ever voices it enough, Scott could never stop admiring Gordon and his altruistic attitude. His kneejerk response, selfishly, was to say no. Ever since that afternoon with that crazy psychic he'd felt more spooked than he would ever admit. It wasn't because she had seen John, because that was impossible. It was because she had known so much about them. Then the attempt to break into his 'Bird... Part of him felt like he should have seen it coming.

He shook his head at his own idiocy. Looking on the bright side, half an hour would give him time to inhale a couple of painkillers and let them kick in before he had to take the long flight back to base.

"FAB, Gordon," he said, opening the comms to Robert, "All fine up there?"

"All the better for hearing you're on your way back soon," Robert smiled, the unrestrained joy in his voice giving Scott another lift to his spirits. This didn't last long, sadly, as he watched Robert's brow crease with confusion.

"Spill," said Scott.

Robert looked at him with dismay, as if he forgot he was watching.

"Scott, did you..." he began, hesitated, then continued, "I have the command logs in front of me. It says you approved to open Thunderbird Two's hatch."

Scott's military brain switched on in an instant.

"When?"

"Ten minutes ago."

He certainly hadn't done that. That could only mean one thing. A millisecond to glance out the hatch confirmed what he didn't want to see. Thunderbird Two, in all her gigantic green glory, was hovering above Cooper Hospital, about to depart for home. He grabbed the microphone in his sweating palms, almost smacking it into his face in urgency .

"Virgil! Emergency landing. Now!"

The green lady froze in her ascent in the distance as Virgil's confused voice sounded over the comms.

"Scott, what-" There was a hiss and screech, followed by the unmistakable static sound of the radio going dead.

Then all Scott could see was fire. The sound of the bomb going off drowned out his cry of terror. Thunderbird Two went down, vanishing in plumes of black smoke as it tumbled out of sight behind the hospital.


	5. Wreckage

**It will be a while until the next update as I'm heading off to my sister's wedding :)**

 **I hope you like this so far. Please feel free to leave a review to let me know what you think x**

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Gordon held his breath as leaned over the gurney, carefully pulling down on the laryngoscope he was using to help to intubate a teenage girl. Her slim face was blackened with nasty burns, but her build told Gordon she was roughly thirteen. A baby. His thoughts turned to where her parents could be, if they were safe. If they knew what was happening to her.

He wrenched his mind back to the present, to the student nurse squeezed up beside him. Her arm brushed his as she started inserting the long tracheal tube down into the poor girl's mouth. Her hands shook slightly as she muttered textbook instructions under her breath. Gordon swallowed, feeling the ghost of an imaginary tube block his own throat in an empathetic reaction. He ignored it and gently placed a hand on the student's wrist to keep her steady.

"Good job," he said reassuringly. The student looked only to be in her late teens, sweat dripping down her face, her dirty blonde hair breaking out of her ponytail in floating strands. In a strange way, she reminded him of his wife Rachael. She had the same grit, a fire in her belly that drew him to her.

The poor girl looked ready to drop. He remembered all too well the feeling of being caught in a baptism of fire, from his own teen years training for the World Aquanaut Security Patrol, or WASPs.

The student asked her colleague, another young student, to check the chest sounds with a stethoscope as Gordon removed the laryngoscope and got to work pumping the ambu bag. He gently squeezed the plastic balloon, watching the girls chest rise and fall. Her skin started going from sickly gray to ivory as her oxygen levels picked up.

"The chest sounds good to me, Heather," said her fellow student Olivia, who was looking equally flustered, "X-ray then ICU?"

"You Cooper students know what you're doing," said Gordon cheerily. He was relieved to see both of them echo his bright smile, despite their exhaustion.

A couple of porters overheard Olivia's suggestion and offered to wheel their patient down for them. As the men grabbed the stretcher and began pushing it towards the elevator, both students stood side by side, watching them go.

"I hope she'll be ok," said Olivia softly.

"Of course she will, because you two just saved her," said Gordon reassuringly, stretching his scratched and aching hands. He looked down at his uniform, the bright blue muted with grey ash and black burns. Grandma was going to be so annoyed... For about five seconds.

He looked at the two girls before him, young and valiant. Heather was already suggesting that they head to accident and emergency to see what they could do, but the tiredness in her voice was obvious. Gordon put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

"Rest and hot, sweet tea," he said, "My wife reckons that can cure anything. You're no good to anyone if you collapse."

"OK," sighed Heather, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"Thank you for everything," said Olivia, her eyes shining.

Gordon smiled, remembering that this is why he did the job, "Once the pair of you are qualified you know where to send your résumés!"

The girls blushed and laughed.

Then the explosion happened, a sound so jarring it was as if lightning had struck the building. All heads in the bustling hospital turned towards the sound, Gordon included.

"Oh, no," Olivia cried, "Are they attacking the hospital?"

Gordon was already moving away from her, towards the east exit. He began sprinting. The exit was in sight down a long corridor when there was a second explosion, that shook the floor under Gordon's feet. Only he knew it wasn't an explosion. Something had just fallen, something gigantic.

People started screaming then, probably thinking they were under attack. Gordon was pretty sure they weren't, but couldn't fathom why.

When he made it outside to the hospital car park, all he could see was an endless expanse of green above him. The green lady. Somehow, Virgil had still managed to land her. He couldn't stop the crash but he could still get her level before the impact. She blocked out the sun, along with the thick black smoke spewing from the front. A flash of silver came roaring into view as Thunderbird One landed as close to the wreckage as safely possible.

For a moment Gordon couldn't breathe or think.

His mind kicked into gear when he saw Scott sprinting full pelt towards him. He had nothing on him, no protective gear or medkit. Foolishly, neither was willing to take a second to question their lack of self-preservation in this case when they had two brothers trapped in a flaming craft.

They made it to an access hatch that would take them up through storage and into the cockpit. But even as this lower door opened, they were hit with a wall of smoke. They looked at each other.

"Masks," said Scott begrudgingly, turning on his heel to sprint back to One.

Gordon stood for a second before taking a few hyperventilating breaths, holding it and striding into the smoke. He could hold his breath for six minutes on an average day, eight on his best. It was nowhere near the world record but he knew there was always a few minutes difference between life and death. It took him a minute to travel up to the cockpit, where he could hear the sounds of Alan grunting and coughing.

It was like music to his ears. He felt his eyes roll close in a huge surge of relief. One of his brothers was ok.

The smoke was so thick that Gordon had to feel his way to the pilots seat. His heart leapt into his mouth to find that Virgil was still sitting in it, lifeless. Alan was tugging at arms to try and move him, half his face covered in blood. Gordon stopped him by placing a hand on his back and signalled to him to get out. Alan ignored that order.

"He's breathing!" Alan roared, his ears probably buzzing from the explosion, "His legs are trapped. I can't move him."

He then bent over double, holding his knees and coughing. Gordon knelt beside him, assessing the situation. Now he was close enough he observed that the control room had been caved in from the explosion and resulting crash landing. Virgil's lower body was encased in metal, the control panel crushed and wrapped around him. Gordon could see down to just above his brother's knees, the rest was buried. If the chair had been only a foot closer, he would already be dead. Gordon could hear the fire roaring outside the buckled, smashed windows. It was getting closer.

He turned to Alan and grabbed one of his wrists. Without preamble, he pulled on the arm and dipped his shoulder down to scoop his only little brother into a fireman's carry. Alan fought him, giving Gordon a eye-jolting knee to the side of his face, but was soon coughing too hard to continue struggling.

Once he was well clear of Two and the black smoke she was belching, Gordon dumped Alan on the ground of the hospital car park. He released the breath he had been holding, his lungs burning. A quick assessment in the overcast daylight told him his brother was in no immediate danger. He had a bit of shrapnel in his forehead and bruising from the crash. He was coughing a lot, but his saliva wasn't burned. Overall, he was extremely lucky.

"I'll be back for you, Alan. Wait here."

Alan waved him away, hand clutching his chest as he wheezed, "Get Virgil!"

Gordon turned to be confronted by a tall, burly man who looked to be in his late thirties. His alarmed reaction gave way to relief when the man looked at him with obvious concern.

"I'm a fireman, name's Dave," he stated in what Gordon recognised to be a London accent, like Parker's, "So's he."

The man pointed to another man who seemed to be assessing the fire at the front of Two. Both of them were in civilian attire, Gordon noted, meaning both firemen were off duty. He felt a renewed sense of hope for humanity in this truly hellish day.

"What do you need?" said Dave earnestly, "What can we do?"

Gordon took a deep breath. "One of our own is trapped in there, far up in the cockpit. We'll need to cut him out."

His heart skipped a beat when he remembered he hadn't relayed that information to Scott. He lifted his watch to his mouth and yelled into it, "Scott. Alan's out and safe, but Virgil's trapped. We'll need a laser cutter. Med kit."

"FAB," was the quick reply from Scott, who was still in Thunderbird One.

The distortion in his voice told Gordon that he was already wearing breathing apparatus, "Need help?" he asked into his watch.

"No, I got it. Gimme a minute. You need to get suited against that smoke, Gordon."

"There's no time, Scott," said Gordon as he started striding towards Two. He only just caught Dave and his colleague disappearing up into the entrance of the burning craft.

"No. Wait!" Gordon cried, sprinting after them.

Once again he ran into the smoking cockpit, not bothering to hold his breath this time. He fumbled his way through the black smog to the pilots seat. He thought for a moment Virgil was moving, but then he saw two arms come into view. Dave's colleague was leaning over his brother, tucking his tie under his brother's leg to act as a makeshift tourniquet. He had one leg propped up against the crumpled console to get leverage. Virgil was unconscious but still breathing.

"Any luck, Nick?" came Dave's voice from somewhere near Virgil's feet.

"No. He's well and truly stuck. He hasn't got long with this bleeding..."

Gordon watched him, stricken with fear. Virgil's skin was in a state of pallor he had seen a hundred times before, indicating severe blood loss.

He froze, transported to feelings he'd had four years ago, like the world was crumbling around him.

Scott broke his frantic thoughts by barging past him, med kit slung over his back. He shoved the same set of breathing apparatus he was wearing into Gordon's stomach, which he donned quickly. By the time he had done that, Scott had set up the laser cutter and ordered Nick and Dave to help him with the extraction. Both of the men were on either side of the damaged console, pulling back sections so Scott could try and cut Virgil free.

The heat from the fire was building, making sweat break out on Gordon's face, an itch he couldn't scratch under the breathing apparatus. He rummaged into the medkit and found another sealed oxygen mask, which he slipped over Virgil's face, his shallow breaths fogging the plastic. Gordon's hand lingered desperately for a moment on Virgil's chestnut hair, then he joined Dave at the base of the pilots seat.

He pulled back at a sheet of metal that was covering Virgil's legs. The panel felt slick under his fingers and Gordon let go to wipe the sweat off his hands... Only it wasn't sweat. It was blood. It left black handprints on his already ruined pants.

Gordon swallowed back the bile in his throat, having suddenly realised that Virgil's legs were either going to be badly crushed... Or severed. His brain automatically went through the ramifications of this. He felt ill.

"Stay with us, Gordon," Scott knew it as well, but he was as professional as ever as he pulled at the metal with all his might.

Gordon took a steadying breath and resumed holding back the panel for Scott, who began working at it with the laser. The adrenaline had increased his strength, as was it's evolutionary purpose. He knew he would suffer tomorrow as he felt the strain on his back, but he didn't care. There was nothing like having your brother an inch away from death to turn you into Superman. The panel was beginning to give, allowing him to peek underneath. Even though he'd prepared himself, he still froze when he spotted the mess that was once his brother's legs, before pulling himself together and resuming his efforts. His goal was to get his brother out alive. He would worry about the injuries later.

Nick spotted it, too. He swallowed and looked faint. "His legs..."

"I know. Focus." Dave snapped.

They all froze at the sound of a gutteral moan.

"He's waking up. He's coming to," cried Gordon, dread filling him as he tore off his breathing apparatus, thrusting it at Dave, "I got him. Keep going, let's get him out."

He leapt up to stand beside the pilots chair, leaning forwards to cradle his big brother's face with both hands. Virgil's eyelids fluttered as he slowly fought his way back to consciousness. His face began to contort with agony and Gordon shuddered inwardly. It awakened his own traumatic memories of the hydrofoil crash. He knew Virgil probably wouldn't remember these moments for months, or years, if he survived this at all. Then one day they would come back to haunt him with a vengeance. He wanted to preemptively lessen that emotional scarring in any way he could. Virgil's eyes were glazed with pain, but widened with recognition.

"Gor..." he grunted, muffled from the oxygen mask. The effort to talk sent him into a coughing fit.

"Don't talk, Virg, I'm here. You're in Thunderbird Two, there was an explosion. We're getting you out."

"Explosion?" Virgil's eyes went even wider. "Alan? Where's Alan?"

"He's alright, Virg," Scott yelled from his position on the floor, "We're going to get you out of this mess."

There was a grating metal sound. Virgil gulped and clenched his teeth. Gordon noted his breathing sounded rough, but that could be from the smoke or the pain. There seemed to be no blood in his mouth and no rattly, wet sounds in his chest. His pale, clammy skin indicated that shock was setting in. He watched Virgil's eyes wander around the crushed cockpit wall, his expression full of despair.

Gordon winced in sympathy, knowing how heartbroken he would be if Four looked like this. "She can be rebuilt. We've done it before, we can do it again."

"Am I... Will I make it?" Virgil croaked, struggling to catch his breath.

Scott laughed up at him. "You'd better. After all the effort I'm going to..."

Virgil tried to shift his head to look down, but Gordon stopped him. "Now, enough talk. Keep your eyes on me. Get your breathing under control for us. It's almost over."

There was denying how scared Virgil was as he reached his arms towards his little brother, finding a forearm and gripping it. Gordon, never breaking eye contact, slipped one hand away from his face to grip his hand. He watched his big brother fight for control as he took slow, determined breaths.

Gordon heard a clang of metal and a sigh of victory from Scott a millisecond before Virgil went rigid and screamed. Feeling his stomach lurch at the sound, Gordon embraced Virgil's face into the crook of his neck, his hand buried in his brother's sweaty hair. He was screaming so hard that he couldn't draw breath. The noise vibrated against Gordon's neck and rang in his ears.

"I know, Virgil, I know it hurts. Just focus on me, focus on my voice. You're going to be fine. The is the worst part. It'll be over soon, I promise..." Gordon doubted Virgil could hear of any of his words, but he kept talking regardless.

He had a quick look down at Scott, who was drenched in sweat as he struggled frantically with the laser cutter. Some detached corner of his brain, where the Gordon that was WASP trained and a member of International Rescue was gently trying to soothe a victim. The Gordon that was a Tracy, who had already lost one big brother, was frightened. He continued to do his best, the lies spilling out of him in that ridiculously calm voice as Virgil's screams eventually became whimpers. Gordon leaned back from the embrace to look into his eyes.

"I'm sorry," said Virgil, struggling to talk through the pain, "Rob... Can he hear..."

"No, the comms aren't on. Do you want to speak to him? I can get him for you."

Virgil gasped and shook his head. "No... No... Don't... He can't hear this... He's... Been through enough..."

Virgil closed his eyes and Gordon gently stroked his face, half of him hoping desperately that he would pass out, where he couldn't be in any more pain. The other half wanted him to stay awake. Stay breathing. Stay alive.

"Please. Gordon... Tell him I'm ok..." Virgil sighed as he mercifully slipped into unconsciousness.

Gordon sniffed and swallowed past the lump in his throat. He tapped Virgil's cheek hard and after getting no response, he knelt down beside Scott, grabbing the hunk of metal he was trying to shift. His voice was suddenly an angry bark, a tone he seldom used. "He's out. We need to move."

* * *

The instant he was cut loose, Gordon carried his brother out himself. The two off-duty fireman were pulled into waiting ambulances to be treated for smoke inhalation.

Gordon, his arms and back screaming under Virgil's dead weight, scanned the crowd for a hint of Alan's blue uniform. He couldn't see it.

Scott, his voice a sharp instrument that he used well, cleared a path for him to a stretcher. Gordon got Virgil strapped in and helped lift him into a waiting air ambulance helicopter.

"We'll get you to Kings, everywhere else is packed," the pilot yelled as Gordon took a seat beside Virgil's stretcher. By King's, he assumed the pilot meant the name of a hospital.

"I know it. I'll fly," said Scott, and there was no arguing with him. The original pilot remained beside him, practically whooping as Scott sent the helicopter up and away with impressive skill.

As they ascended, Gordon watched the wreckage of Thunderbird Two getting smaller from the car park below. She was as broken as her pilot. Gordon could see firefighters had moved in to tackle the fire that attempted to consume her.

"ETA two minutes, Gordon," bellowed Scott, "Keep him with us."

Gordon lifted his telecom watch to his mouth, "Thunderbird Five, it's Gordon."

He saw Robert's face appear. To his credit, he was magnificently calm.

"Rob..." said Gordon, "I have Virgil. We're airlifting him to hospital."

He saw Robert wince. "I'll tell Base. What about Alan?"

"That's mainly why I'm contacting you directly," said Gordon, "I got him out. He was mobile and I couldn't see him at the crash site just now."

"FAB, I'll find him," said Robert, cutting him off. Gordon wondered if he was grateful for the distraction, not able to imagine how distraught he'd be if he saw Rachael looking like how Virgil did right now.

As they flew closer to the hospital, Gordon became aware of a high-pitched, wheezing noise. He realised it was coming from Scott. He was taking huge, gulping breaths as he worked at the controls. Gordon didn't want to distract him from his flying by approaching him, knowing it was probably just the strain catching up with him. He trusted his brother would easily give up the pilot's seat if he wasn't up to it.

He looked down at his fallen brother. He refused to let his eyes wander down to the mess below Virgil's waist. Instead, he knelt beside his stretcher, picking up a cold, limp in both his own. He gripped it hard, as if to physically hold him back from the clutches of death. Like an anchor.

"I know you can hear me," he stated under his breath, abruptly feeling the tears trying to choke him, "I know it's all too easy to submit right now, all broken up like this. Virg, you can't. I forbid you to. Don't you dare leave us. We can't... I can't do this again."

He stopped for a moment to let a building sob erupt out his chest, the tears and snot dripping down. He wiped his face on his sleeve. He looked into his brother's white face, hair as dark as John's had been light.

"If you go now, I swear, I will break into Limbo and drag you back out myself," Gordon couldn't help but smile as he imagined how Virgil would respond to such a threat. For now, his heroic, artistic and irreplaceable big brother didn't respond. Apart from a small darting of his eyes under the closed lids, which Gordon was pretty sure he imagined.

The time it took to get him to hospital felt like an eternity. He prayed to God, to Mom, to John (anyone) to let him see those eyes open again.


	6. Breathe

As soon as they touched down on the roof of the hospital, Scott slammed the collective down and idled the throttle. He gave a nod of thanks to the pilot before leaping out of the pilots seat, knowing he couldn't have got to the hospital any faster without crashing. The cold air outside hit him like a brick wall. It was like cool water to a man dying of thirst and Scott gulped down a replenishing breath. He stepped down onto the helipad, the drumming of his pounding heart easing slightly. His ears screamed from the roar of the propellers, the freezing wind knocking off his cap and sending it far off into the air. He stepped around the side of the helicopter, scrabbling at the door before throwing it wide open.

He was greeted by the sight of Gordon leaning over Virgil doing chest compressions. Whatever Scott was going to do or say left him with that sight, like crossing a threshold to a room and forgetting why you went there. He could barely hear his little brother's frantic counting over the surrounding din.

"Twenty... Twenty-one... Come on... Please... Twenty-four.. Twenty-five... Twenty-six... Twenty-seven... Ugh, no..." Gordon spoke with the rhythm of each compression, making Virgil's body jolt and his head loll around on the stretcher. The blanket they had used to cover his mangled legs was soaked with blood.

The frightening sight had a strange effect on Scott, like seeing a glass falling off a counter and knowing that you will catch it, when your brain processes a million different thoughts in an instant.

 _He remembered Virgil running around a hotel room, seven years old, chatty and thoughtful. Scott remembered sitting on the high double bed watching all his little brothers jump about the room. They marvelled at the big beds, the huge bath, the fancy coffee machine... It was like a big adventure for them. Scott's mind was busy with thoughts far too dark for a nine year old. He pondered how much he loved them all. He worried what on earth he was going to do when he told them that Mom had had the baby, but wasn't coming home. He didn't want to tell Grandma that he was scared. It was Virgil's soft voice that broke his thoughts, saying, "Wait. Scott, are you crying?"_

In the present Scott's eyes were dry, yet they burned with every sharp detail of the scene before him. He could tell Gordon had shed tears, which he hadn't seen him do since John's funeral, not even after the most harrowing of rescues. He was almost angry, but only because if Gordon couldn't hold it together in this moment, then Scott had to do it. He had to stay composed when one of the people he loved most in this world lay dead on a stretcher.

He noted, with grotesque amusement, it was somehow far easier to see Virgil like this than it had been hearing him scream in agony.

"How long?" said Scott, his voice coming out small and betraying any fear he couldn't suppress. He turned to glance over his shoulder as Gordon started another round of compressions, relieved to see a team of hospital staff approaching carrying a load of equipment and a fresh stretcher. When he turned back to Gordon, he was tilting Virgil's head back. Scott watched him pinch his brother's nose, leaning down to clamp his mouth over his to give him a couple of rescue breaths.

"Just now," grunted Gordon breathlessly as he rose before violently pushing his arms into Virgil's chest, "One... Two... Three... Come on... Five... Six... Virgil, please..."

 _It was Virgil that had taught Alan how to walk. He was early to it, spurred on by his older brothers. Scott once found Virgil, stocky and laughing, racing a one-year-old Alan down the corridor. Only they weren't running, but monkey crawling on their arms and legs._

A nurse tapped Scott on the back. He heard the team bustling behind him as he said "Gordon, let them take over."

Gordon had a wild look in his eyes, as if he had been asked the impossible. A doctor eased past Scott to stand by the stretcher. He placed a face mask attached to an ambu bag over Virgil's face and encouraged Gordon to count down the compressions. Once he hit thirty, the doctor squeezed the bag to push air into Virgil's unmoving lungs. Then Gordon took a step back, arms raised, as a nurse took over compressions for him.

Scott automatically told the team all the injuries and vitals he knew of and they expertly transferred Virgil into the building within minutes. One man in green scrubs, who looked to be of Indian ethnicity, lingered behind to make sure they had got all the information they needed.

"Please do what you can for him," Gordon said to him tiredly, his expression lax.

The surgeon put a hand on his shoulder, "International Rescue deserves all the fight we have. I promise we'll do all we can."

He led them off the helipad to the roof entrance of the hospital, but Scott could see Gordon's faltering steps beside him and knew what was about to happen. He turned in time to steady his brother before he fell flat on his face. Gordon's amber eyes were almost rolled back in his head, his body shaking. It had all been a bit too much. He reeked of blood. It caked his hands and chest. All of it was Virgil's.

"OK, buddy..." said Scott soothingly, supporting Gordon's weight as he swayed on his feet.

"I can't stand up..."

"I know, you're gonna faint," said Scott gently, "Let yourself go, don't fight it."

"I never f..." Gordon's tanned skin bleached into a sallow white, even down to his lips. His legs buckled. Scott eased him down onto the concrete ground, one hand in his coppery hair and the other checking the pulse in his throat.

"I got you, buddy."

"I'm sorry, Scott..."

"Don't be."

The Indian doctor left to get help, though Scott knew it was unnecessary. He knew what was going on. It was emotional shock. He talked to Gordon soothingly, keeping him calm. His eyes slipped closed but he still managed to respond, nodding occasionally and muttering apologetically, as the blood slowly made it's way back to his brain.

* * *

Scott watched Gordon through the window of his private ward room ten minutes later. Gordon was now alert and bright, apologising again to the nurse. Scott didn't need to lip-read to know what he was saying. 'I'm fine, ma'am, really. I just had a big girly swoon, it happens to the best of us...'

The smiling nurse lightly slapped his shoulder, chastising him about so-called 'girly swoons'.

Scott took the opportunity to contact Thunderbird Five and Tracy Island to update them about Virgil. The last he had heard was that they had managed to restart his heart, but had to get him into emergency surgery to control the bleeding. There wasn't even a question about the damage to his legs as it was unlikely he would survive. Robert had to shut down his comms quickly, but not fast enough for everyone to know he had vomited all over the floor of Thunderbird Five.

Eventually the Indian surgeon he had met earlier, Dr Nair, emerged to inform him that they having complications with Virgil's surgery. They were working hard to fix arterial damage, but his left leg may need to be amputated. Scott mulled over this knowledge just wishing he could tell himself it was all just a bad dream.

He was feeling shaky from low blood sugar, remembering he hadn't eaten in about fifteen hours. The last thing he cared about right now was food, but remembering from past experience, he knew everything was harder to deal with when there was no glucose reaching your brain. Plus, Gordon was definitely in need of some energy. He spoke to a man in one of the little side rooms of the ward, asking where he get food. The man was dressed in a shirt and black pants, the ID badge around his neck informing Scott he was a junior doctor named Luke. Looking down, he saw that Luke had his left pant leg rolled up, revealing a nasty deep cut just below his knee.

"You stay put," he said kindly, "I'll find you something to eat."

"You don't need to do that, just show me where to go," insisted Scott, raising a reassuring hand.

Luke looked Scott up and down, then raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I've got plenty spare clothes in my locker, if you need to look a bit more inconspicuous."

He was right, Scott had been drawing a lot of attention with the uniform. He glanced down at himself and saw that he was covered in a fair amount of blood.

"Any of that yours?" Luke asked.

"No. It's my... Colleagues," Scott corrected at the last second before he said 'brother's'.

His wrist communicator suddenly bleeped and he jumped. Scott looked up at Luke.

"Sorry, I"-

Luke nodded his head in understanding. "I'll be here if you need anything."

With that, he hobbled back to his computer. Scott headed back to Gordon's room. He was glad to find it was only his little brother in there, busy sluicing water over his face from the tiny sink near the bed. The water turned a rusty colour as the blood rinsed away.

Scott raised a finger to his lips at Gordon's questioning look. He pressed a button on his watch and saw Robert's face appear. He looked sweaty and his eyes were red, but he was brave.

"The Thunderbirds are locked down completely. The police are guarding them. But I can't find any sign of Alan, not even on the GPS," he said, looking desperate, "I've been trying to get him on his wrist comm but there's been no response. There's no sign of sabotage with his watch either. I've sent out a description to the emergency services to look out for him."

Scott swallowed. In all the horror, he hated to admit that he had almost forgotten about Alan. He wondered how many more disasters could happen today. Tracy Island getting hit by a tsunami must be next in the plot. Or a nuclear detonation. He heard Gordon take a long, despairing sigh.

"We'll head back to the crash site and ask around," said Scott, holding on to whatever thread of hope he had left, "Maybe he's passed out in a hospital somewhere... As soon as I update Base... Consult the surgeons..."

"I wouldn't talk to your dad," said Robert softly, "I'll update him. Tell me about Virgil. How is he?"

Scott felt his throat constrict. Robert must have seen the despair on his face, for his eyes went wide with horror, "No... He can't be... Scott, he's not-"

"No! No, Rob, he's still with us," said Scott quickly, "He's... holding on."

"Scott, if I could be down there I would. I want the whole truth."

He took a few moments to sit taller and plan what he was going to say, but knew there was no way he could soften a blow like this.

"He might lose a leg. If the surgery doesn't kill him."

Gordon raised a to his mouth, his eyes glistening. Robert let out a shocked breath. Then breathed in again, deliberately slow. He fixed Scott with an anxious stare.

"As long as we don't lose him."

Then there came a shrill scream from out in the corridor. Both Scott and Gordon were moving in an instant. When they made it out into the corridor, they saw a few people crouched down by someone on the floor. Scott felt a bolt of shock as he recognised the person lying there. It was Luke, his arms splayed wide, a single gunshot wound in his forehead.

In his splayed right hand, broken and speckled with blood, was Alan Tracy's watch.


	7. Shattered

Tin-Tin lay sprawled on her family's bed, her daughter at her breast. Janna was suckling lazily, drifting into her afternoon doze. One of her little hands patted and pulled against her ear in her strange self soothing habit.

Tin-Tin stroked her hand over her daughter's perfect face, wondering to herself how she had gotten so big so quickly. Wasn't it yesterday that her fingers were as a delicate as a birds wing, with fingernails the size of a grain of rice? Now at a year old, she was a hearty little thing. She had been the most easy going baby, despite her rough start.

This bed was where her family knew true happiness. No matter how late or early Alan returned from a rescue, drained and miserable, he always sought the bed where his two ladies were sleeping. Tin-Tin loved that he never cared if Janna disturbed him, whether it was with a piercing scream for milk at 2am or kissing him on the nose to wake him up at 7am. Tin-Tin would ask him to change a diaper or run a bath and her wonderful husband would scoop up his daughter, singing to her and making her giggle.

Even Jeff seemed surprised by how adept Alan was as a father. He himself seemed smitten with his granddaughter. Once Tin-Tin walked in on him sitting at Janna's changing mat, trying to wrestle a diaper on her. Jeff smiled up at her and confessed, "You never would've got me changing the boys thirty years ago!" This earned him a sharp comment of agreement from Grandma Tracy.

Janna finally unlatched from the breast, rolling away from Tin-Tin to lie on her stomach. She started to snore.

Tin-Tin chuckled at the noise as she tucked a blanket around her daughter. She then checked her watch for the baby monitor feed and saw it was working nicely. She had a lot to thank Brains for, especially for such advanced surveillance that she could know what her daughter was up to from anywhere on the island.

She headed off to the kitchen to make a herself a pot of tea, which she would no doubt end up sharing with her father. Judging by the raised voices coming from the lounge, the rescue was still in full swing. The last she had heard was that Virgil, Alan and Gordon were finishing up transporting casualties to hospital.

As she fiddled with the teapot and cups, she overhead Jeff's voice say a few words that made her blood run cold. His deep voice carried easily through the walls.

"...Thunderbird Two looks to be beyond repair..."

Tea forgotten, Tin-Tin moved towards the lounge. She eased the door open a crack so she could look into the room. Her father and Grandma were standing side by side, backs towards her. In front of them, Jeff manned his desk as always. Brains was on his left, looking up at Scott's live video feed. Robert's feed from Thunderbird Five was also active.

"I-I-I could get out there with, uh, Tin-Tin to, uh, assess the damage personally," Brains observed.

Jeff looked up at him with haunted eyes, "That would be ideal, Brains, but that's not our priority right now. Thunderbird Two is currently under guard, Penny has seen to that herself. Thank God for her..."

Tin-Tin saw Jeff uncharacteristically lower his face into has hands.

"Father," Scott spoke tiredly from his portrait on the wall, "We're not needed here. They've put Virgil into a medically induced coma."

Tin-Tin heard Gordon pipe up from behind Scott, "I can stay with him."

Before Tin-Tin could address the myriad of emotions that flooded her thoughts, she saw Jeff rally himself.

"Brains, I want you to speak with Robert. Look through security footage of both Thunderbird One and Two. Get surveillance from the car park and the hospital where Virgil is. See if you can find out who took Alan and who shot that young man."

"Uh, yes, Mr Tracy."

Jeff turned to look at Robert's portrait, "How're you holding up, son?"

Robert, looking pale and anguished, shook his head, "No time for that. I'll get that command history for you, Brains. Someone opened Thunderbird Two before she took off."

Brains agreed they would discuss it more once he was in the lab. Robert's video feed changed back to his still portrait, painted by Virgil four years ago.

"Don't worry, Mr Tracy. We'll find Alan. If anyone were to have guardian spirits, it would be Virgil," said her father warmly.

Tin-Tin watched it all unfolding like she was watching a TV show. Or having an out of body experience. She wanted to believe that this wasn't her life. She must've fallen asleep with Janna, on the bed, as she had done many times before.

"No," she whispered.

She gently slid the door to the lounge closed, turning her back on the room.

She let her shaking hands continue the ritual of making the tea. Scott's voice drifted in from the lounge. As always he his commanding voice could not be blocked out, even if the words were too terrifying to comprehend.

"Father, the guy was shot point blank. I'd only spoken to him moments before"-

Tin-Tin added a splash of water to the pot to warm it.

"...but the blood on Alan's watch, it wasn't fresh. It must be his..."

She placed the jasmine pearl tea leaves into the pot before pouring in the boiling water.

"...whoever took him destroyed Thunderbird Two. They didn't intend to take it, they intended to kill..."

The jasmine pearl leaves opened up like flowers in bloom, their yellow essence blossoming into the water like smoke. She picked up the one of the delicate china teacups to place on the tray.

"...we have very little time, if it's not already too late..."

There was a sharp noise, a tinkling crack. Tin-Tin's gasp of surprise was just as quiet.

Her father was the first to open the door to the kitchen, Grandma and Jeff following at his dismayed sigh. Tin-Tin followed his gaze down towards her hand, realising she had crushed the teacup in her fist. It had broken into large shards and blood was dripping onto the floor.

"What a mess I've made," Tin-Tin said dreamily.

Her father moved towards her, his arms outstretched, offering her the wonderful comfort and safety she had known all her life.

Something that Janna had known, but would never remember.

"No..." Tin-Tin breathed as her father enfolded her, talking soothingly as she shook with terror, "No, not Alan, no..."


	8. Defiance

**Hi, lovely people! Got a really strong case of 'busy life' going on and it was all going so well... This tale has a plan and an ending, which you will get, just not as fast as I would like. I apologise for that and I appreciate your patience. That's just the way it will have to be until they invent a tablet to replace sleep or an off button for my beautiful toddler!**

 **Thank you to all that have taken the time to review so far xxx**

* * *

The pain was like an ocean tide going out, holding him under. He could see the sun above him and he reached for it, trying to break the surface. He felt he was going to drown, but why did it hurt so much? Why couldn't he move?

The first image he could recall was of Virgil screaming, beating his hands against a crumpled control panel.

Alan woke choking and gasping, the pain in his head making his body shudder. He screwed his eyes up against bright light, tears rolling down his cheeks. The ceiling came into view. Above him were large grey tiles, the walls around it white.

"I'm... In hospital," Alan concluded groggily, "Why am I in hospital?"

Once he caught his breath, his first thought was that he was naked. The second was that he was paralysed. That thought was enough to send him into a state of blind panic. Blinking fiercely to try and keep his stinging eyes open, he made an attempt to lift his head. Nothing happened. His arms were down by his side, also stuck. Same for his legs.

He quickly learned that he was strapped down at the forehead, chest, wrists and ankles. He couldn't understand why. He didn't feel too badly injured. The only pain he had was the relentless pounding in his head. Who had taken his clothes?

He needed to get up. If only he could reach his watch... Then he realised it wasn't there. Why? One of his brothers must have taken it.

He tried to remember what happened.

Like a movie pressing play, he recalled the disaster at Cooper Hospital. He remembered the explosion, Thunderbird Two spinning out of control. Virgil.

Alan had remained conscious throughout the whole destruction of Thunderbird Two. After the thunderous bang and flash of the explosion, stars danced in front of his eyes. He could barely see Virgil, frantic at his controls, half-turning towards him yelling "Brace! Brace!' Alan dizzily obeyed. He was thrown against his passenger restraints on impact and he felt something hit his head with a sharp biting sensation. Then warm blood dripped own his face and into his eyes as Thunderbird Two went still.

Then above the ringing in his ears, he could hear a bellowing. The noise had him moving frantically. He lifted his swimming, heavy head and freed himself from his restraints to find his big brother trapped. He was the one making the noise, screaming in agony and trying to writhe free of the metal surrounding his seat. That was when Alan's mind went blank and the images stopped, like a camera lenses clamping shut. He had a fleeting feeling that Gordon was there, but he couldn't have been. Was Virgil still stuck in Thunderbird Two? Did he make it?

Did any of that even happen? The fogginess of his thoughts made him feel like he was caught in an intense nightmare.

"Help me," he croaked, struggling against his restraints, "Please, is anyone there? Virgil? Is my brother ok?"

His ears were still buzzing so loud he could barely hear his own voice. Even talking was starting to make him feel sick and the last thing he wanted to do was throw up lying down like this.

"Hello?" he shouted, still trying to turn his head, "I'm awake. I'd like to get up now? Anyone there?"

Nothing. The only sound was the whining tinnitus in his ears.

"Gordon. Gordon, come here! Scott? Scott, I'm awake. Get me out of here!"

He attempted this for a good half hour. By the end, he was screaming for help. The effort intensified his headache and he soon let himself slump, beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead. Now he was getting anxious.

"I'm only in hospital," he stated numbly.

That thought quickly vanished, his hope disappearing as his panicked mind started working properly.

"Who the hell..." he muttered, "In any hospital... Strips a patient and ties them up with..."

He wiggled his wrists experimentally.

"...Leather straps?"

He swallowed against the wave of terror that consumed him then. There wasn't a soul around, at least not a friendly one. He took a few deep breaths to try and calm himself. The images of all his older brothers came to mind. All his life he had felt he lived under their shadow, always striving to make his mark. Now he would give anything for just one of them to be here, even just to tell him to calm down and stop imagining the worst.

A couple of hours later, after screaming himself hoarse, his worst fears were starting to become reality. He started trying to writhe his way out of the restraints, almost spraining his wrists from the effort.

With a frustrated cry he went still, then felt intense shame as tears sprang to his eyes.

"Fuck," he whispered cautiously, as if Grandma would actually be able to reprimand him now, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

His nose was itching like crazy. The room and table under him was cold. With no clothes to keep him warm, he started to shiver. He needed to pee. And the icing on the cake - he was crying like a coward.

"What do I do?" he growled into the empty air around him, "Come on, Scott. Tell me. What do I do?"

* * *

It was their weekly combat training session, an official name for the rough and tumble play they had grown up doing. The only difference now is that they were allowed to hurt each other without a clout around the ear from Grandma. And they could use weapons.

They had gotten really good at it, even John. The pacifist of the family didn't need too much encouragement to try and outdo his stronger older siblings. Scott had had the most military training, so it was only natural that he led the training.

Alan made it his own personal goal to win against Scott. He never had. He had managed plenty of victories against everyone else, including Virgil. Well, he beat Virgil once. That in itself earned him plenty of noogies and thumps on the back, like it was a rite of passage. Virgil may be level-headed on a rescue, but when he fought, he was capable of battle rage. It made him intimidating and unpredictable. Once he had come close to breaking Alan's arm and never stopped feeling guilty about it since.

Alan was thinking back to a day roughly six months into International Rescue going operational. They were finishing up a combat session. He had been paired with Gordon, Virgil with John. He felt he had held his own well enough against Gordon's agility. John had eventually been thrown to the ground by his partner and admitted defeat. Virgil would normally at least raise his arms to acknowledge the victory, but never with John. There was a mutual respect there that forbid gloating. John lay on the floor for a moment, chest heaving. He shook his head, annoyed, when his sparring partner offered him a hand. Instead he rolled to his side and got to his feet, brushing sweat soaked hair back from his face.

"Next time," Virgil smirked, clapping him on the back.

"Hit the showers, guys!" Scott bellowed from across the hall, "See you all later, I'm going for a walk."

Scott always wound down after an intense session like this with a solitary brisk walk around the island, returning after sunset. Alan jogged after him before he could leave the room, his muscles aching. He'd had training to cover a range of worst case scenarios, but there was one burning question that he had to ask.

He tapped his older brother on the shoulder and Scott turned slowly, looking down at him. "What is it, Alan?"

"Just don't punch me," Alan murmured.

Scott's rolled his eyes at this, but he was still smiling, "Spit it out."

"What do we do if... We get captured?" said Alan solemnly, "If it were to ever happen."

Scott paused as he was silently assaulted with the memories. There was a telltale wash of emotion that went over his face. His mouth opened ever so slightly and he gazed at the floor near Alan's feet.

"I'm sorry, you don't need to talk about-"

\- "No, no, Alan. It's actually a pretty good question," said Scott softly, his tone low.

Alan saw Scott look over his shoulder. He turned around to see that all his brothers were standing still, watching this conversation. Scott gave a smirk and waved them over. The hand took Alan's attention, because it bore the only mark of Scott's torment. The fingernail on his ring finger never grew back properly. Not after it was wrenched from the nail bed.

Alan would never forget Scott coming home from his last mission in the Air Force. It was supposed to be routine, but had gone badly wrong. His big brother had been decorated for bravery, yet had returned battered, bruised and with all his fingernails missing. His hands so were so sore he could barely lift a glass. The rest of the marks left behind by his captors were invisible. Everyone knew the reason why Scott slept atrociously, lucky if he could snatch more than four hours sleep a night. He feared the nightmares. They also knew that this unspoken piece of history built the foundation for the quick thinking commander he was becoming.

Scott waited until all four of his siblings were around him in a semi circle. He took a deep breath, "Alan wants to know what to do if you end up being held hostage."

Alan flinched as John tilted his head in his direction, his look scathing, "Alan, you've got no right to"-

"John! Leave him," Scott said, raising a placating hand, "He wasn't asking about me. Still, we need to talk about the possibility. God forbid it ever happens to any of you..."

Virgil, who was standing at his right side, rested a palm on his shoulder and squeezed.

Scott sighed. "If there's ever a time I wish I had some good advice, it would be now. The only thing I can say with certainty is that if some bastard out there tries to torture you, threaten you," his sharp blue eyes moved around to meet all of his brothers, "Then you tell them everything."

There was a pause as the brothers exchanged surprised glances, all except Virgil.

"I would ask about endangering the family if we talked..." said Virgil.

Scott nodded, not at all surprised that Virgil understood, "...They'd find out anyway."

Gordon was confused, "Really, Scott? That's what we do? We're supposed to squeal?"

Now Scott was angry, "What do you expect me to say? Oh, anyone can stand up to torture. Sure. Just zone out, go to a happy place, take your mind elsewhere... People that think like that are the first to crack. I've seen it first hand. Believe me, it's worse than if you just accept and submit. No matter who you are, the pain will break you. Then only after you've finally spilled your guts, they'll kill you. By then, you'll be as good as dead anyway."

Gordon looked down, ashamed, "Sorry. It's just... I'd want to fight them."

Alan sniffed, "Me too."

Scott looked at them, his sincerity frightening, "Please, boys. If you love your family, don't fight. Do what they want. Tell them everything. Save yourself the pain."

His eyes locked on to Alan's. He had never seen fear in his brother's face before.

* * *

The sound of a door opening broke Alan's mind out of the memory. His wide eyes turned towards the noise as far as they could go, but he could still only see the bare grey ceiling. The strap across his forehead was so tight he felt his skull might crack.

"Scott?" he whimpered, in ridiculous hope that thinking of his brother had somehow summoned him.

There was a clacking of heels on a hard floor and the underside of a woman's face came into view. Alan could only see the bottom of her chin and the top of her white coat. He could hear more clacking. Another woman, murmuring, making her way around the lower end of the table.

"Please, ma'am," he said frantically, "Get these straps off of me. I've been here for"-

Lightening fast, she grabbed onto his thick blonde hair and pulled. He gave a yelp, more of surprise than pain. He looked up at the woman above him. He couldn't see much of her face but heard the venom in her voice as she spat, "Dia bukan yang mereka mahu. Jurutera itu telah dibunuh."

At first he thought the words were directed at him, before he heard the voice of the other woman responding in the same language. He was no good with foreign languages, but there was something oddly familiar about it. There was a screech and whirring of wheels towards his feet. It sounded like the second woman was pulling up a trolley.

"What do you want?" Alan flinched as the hand in his hair tightened. The women continued to talk rapidly back and forth, ignoring him. It was infuriating.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" he screamed.

A fist smashed down onto his face. He felt his nose crack and blood started to run down his throat.

He took that to mean 'shut up'.

Over the idle chatting he could hear the distinctive snaps of someone putting on latex gloves. That couldn't be good. Then there were gloved hands touching down low, where they definitely weren't welcome. Before Alan could so much as twitch in defiance, he was hit by the worst pain he'd ever felt in his life.

It turns out that when you feel like you're getting slowly castrated, all thoughts of compliance go completely out the window. Alan screamed, spat, roared and yelled his whole vocabulary of profanties at the women. It was all he could do. The women continued to ignore his struggles, until the lady near his head moved away. When she returned moments later, there was a sharp sting. A needle piercing his neck.

Whatever they injected him with was wonderfully strong. He felt himself sliding down fast into unconsciousness, the only way he could escape now. He was dimly aware of his bladder letting go. He didn't feel a gush of fluid like he expected. Then he realised what they had done to him was insert a catheter.

He didn't know what they were planning, but he prayed for no more indignity rather than a painless death. His last thoughts were of wanting to say sorry to Tin-Tin and to hold his daughter one last time.


	9. Dead Eyes

Gordon entered the hospital room, looking towards the bed with a nod.

"Hey, Virgil. It's me again. Gordon."

Virgil didn't answer. Still, Gordon felt it extremely inconsiderate to not talk to him just because he couldn't talk back. It rarely stops him in any scenario.

He made his way over to the chair he'd used earlier when he was first allowed to visit. It had been a few hours ago, when the police were finally done questioning Scott and himself over the death of the junior doctor. They were all too baffled and exhausted to handle anything more after that. Scott returned to Base on their father's instruction, despite being conflicted. He confided that he really didn't want to leave Virgil, but Alan needed him more. He was also reluctant to leave his 'Bird out on display for any more demolition attempts.

When he saw Virgil, to say goodbye, he emerged from the private room looking resolute. Gordon wasn't fooled and could see he was a shade paler, the departing handshake he gave him a bit too firm.

Gordon assigned himself guard duty, promising to be as committed as Scott would be. They'd already lost John, now Alan. Virgil needed somebody to make sure nobody came back to finish the job. Sure, there were guards outside the door. Safety precautions had done a lot of good so far.

He studied his brother on the bed, knowing how much he would hate how he looked right now, so far from his usual pristine appearence. They had removed the ventilator and stopped the steady dose of barbiturates that had been keeping him deeply unconscious. The doctors had done all they could to prevent any further brain damage from the cardiac arrest. Now Virgil had to meet them half way.

Shuddering from tiredness, Gordon leaned forward to prop his elbows on Virgil's bed and pick up one of his hands in both his own. Just like in the helicopter. This time the hand felt warm and alive, the fingers heavy and lax. There was still patches of dirt and blood in the wrinkles of his knuckles, under his fingernails.

Gordon had never had a habit of taking people's hands, especially his brothers. He supposed it was another echo of what happened with his own brush with death, when his only tether to sanity was a soothing voice and the reassurance of another human being by his side. Sometimes John, sometimes Father, often Scott. Mostly Virgil. He was prone to a sensitive touch, only when nobody was looking. Never Alan. He always hated hospitals. He hated hopelessness even more.

Gordon studied Virgil's face, that was so much like their Mom's. Gordon had been too young to remember their mother. Grandma once discovered a few home videos one year, of a summer's barbeque in their back garden in Kansas. Jeff explained that the whole neighbourhood would visit for Grandma's food. The brothers, huddled around the screen, found it hard to tell which boy was who as they charged over the grass. The one year old redhead toddler was unmistakable, pulling along a pregnant woman by the hand. Both Gordon and Alan did not expect to see that Virgil had had their Mom's facial structure. The same eyes. In a lot of ways, it was the only way Gordon had ever truly seen her. Through Virgil.

Gordon suddenly realised he had been quiet too long, but wasn't sure what to say.

"I'm glad you listened," he said eventually, sincerely, "I'm glad you stayed. I'll ignore the 1000 volts of extra encouragement you needed. I'll pretend it was my words that did their magic."

Virgil continued sleeping. There was no signs of consciousness. His breathing was good and steady.

"You're a miracle, Virg. You know that? I guess that makes two of us, now. Let's hope Alan's inherited some luck of his own."

Gordon squeezed Virgil's hand tighter, the thoughts that had sent him spiralling into a faint earlier pressing dangerously heavy on his shoulders.

"I wanted to tell you earlier. Before I left this morning, Rachael found out she was pregnant. She showed me the test. Can you believe it? There's gonna be another baby on the island. Well, it's early days, so... You won't tell anyone, will you?"

He waited politely for a response that didn't come.

"No, of course you won't."

The private room was warm and dark. Gordon ended up falling asleep, half leaning on the bed. A nurse on her night shift took pity on him and brought around a reclining chair for him to sleep on. Gordon wheeled it as close to Virgil's side as he could, taking his vigil seriously. He was bombarded by awful flashbacks to the last time he held a watch like this, when his charge was John, slowly dying of a virus in an isolation room.

Thoughts of John sent him into feverish dreams that were far from restful.

He wasn't sure what woke him some time later, but he knew someone else was present and aware in the room. He squinted into the dark, at Virgil's silhouetted form. Sure enough, his big brother's dark eyes were open and blinking slowly, gazing up at the ceiling.

Gordon was at his side instantly, half laughing and half crying. Laughing because, for once in his life, his prayers had been answered. Crying because he had no idea how he was going to tell Virgil that they'd lost Thunderbird Two and their little brother.

His gaze, blurry with tears, flicked down to the end of the bed. Virgil's legs were both in casts. One of them, the left, no longer had a foot.

An amputation below the knee had been the least of Virgil's concerns a few hours ago, but now...

Virgil looked up at him, his face a confused grimace. It was a heartbreaking thing to see on someone who did not deserve any of this.

"Welcome back," Gordon managed, preparing himself for the literal uphill struggle that was to come.


	10. Home

**This took sooo long... Not enough hours in the day. But it's done! On to the next one!**

* * *

Scott's hands were numb, his eyelids heavy. Soaring at seventeen thousands miles per hour, he was definitely unfit to fly by any normal standards. This did not apply when flying your ship came as naturally as breathing.

His fingers moved levers and pressed buttons of their own accord, his mind elsewhere, deep in thoughts about Alan. His pain had brought him back six months, when they had both been somewhat closer to happiness then they had been in years. He had been carrying Alan's daughter down a sunlit pier, only last summer. Scott had nicknamed her 'Brightness' since the minute she could smile. She would have no idea how upside down her little world had just become.

These intrusive memories were interspersed by flashback images of John, still and gray on his death bed. He had not long seen Virgil in a similar state, half his face obscured by the ventilator pumping air into his lungs. Scott couldn't bring himself to go near him. He didn't pat his brother's hand in farewell, like he wanted. The terrifying sense of deju vu made him almost certain that one touch could be the end. It could break the spell that was keeping his brother alive.

Seeing him lying like that, he almost called his father to demand that Gordon return instead. He would even allow him to take Thunderbird One home, as reluctantly as giving up a piece of his soul. He would even forgive a few nicks from Gordon's famous rough landings - anything but leave Virgil's side.

These thoughts occurred strongly but he had no true will to act on them, remembering the warning that had been left for him. He had been seen speaking to a stranger, who then got murdered moments later. Seeing Alan's watch had made the message clear.

That same watch that was now on Scott's right wrist, just below his own. Every time he looked down to adjust a flight lever, there was his visual reminder, it's cracked screen speckled with black blood. He managed to take it from Luke's body before the police could, not really sure if it was the right thing to do. The young man looked to be Alan's age. His skin had still been warm. His eyes were half closed, the pupil's wide and black, staring blindly past him.

 _We're watching you. We destroyed you. We took one of your own, right under your nose._

Scott had a message of his own. "When I find you, you'll wish you'd killed _me_ instead."

He had no choice but to head home. The guilt over that decision twisted his stomach and made his jaw clench painfully. All this carnage had happened under his command. The worst part was that he _knew_ it was going to happen. His instinct, fine tuned by years of military service and successful rescues, had been urgent like a flashing red siren. The attack on London had been a well orchestrated trap and he had known it the instant Robert made his report hours ago. There was also nothing he could do to prevent them falling into it. How could you turn to face your father and tell him you'd let innocent people die based on a gut feeling?

He didn't speak up. That had nearly got killed Virgil. It may as well have killed Alan. He would never make that mistake again.

It had certainly torn International Rescue apart from the inside out. They couldn't function without Thunderbird Two and her pilot. After John, he thought nothing worse could ever happen to the organisation or his family.

The unbreakable bond he shared with Virgil since childhood was stretching taught with the distance between them. A fraying thread, like he had left a piece of himself behind. His only comfort was that Gordon was there with him. Fearless, tenacious Gordon - the only person he could trust with this job other than himself. If (when, Christ, when!) Virgil woke up, he would be in good hands.

His communicator beeped and he was surprised and relieved to see Brains's bespectacled face appear before him. It wasn't Gordon or Robert, and no news from them was good news.

"Brains?"

"Scott, I-I-I need you to come down to the, uh, lab when you return. There's, uh, something Mr Tracy, ah, ah, needs you to see."

"Brains..." Scott closed his eyes briefly, trying to clear his blurred vision, "I'm so tired I can't even see straight. Anything you can give me, first?"

Brains looked sideways and his voice dropped to a whisper, "I understand the situation, uh, Scott, but your Father wouldn't permit"-

"To hell with that," said Scott, not liking the desperation in his voice, "If I fall asleep now, I won't wake up for a day. We can't allow that."

He watched Brains consider this for a moment, before saying, "I-I'll see you in the lab."

Then for the first time, Brains cut him off without a clear yes or no. Scott raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"He's getting too smart," he sighed.

He landed his beautiful Thunderbird as smoothly as ever. He didn't need to have his eyes open for that. He went through his checks rapidly, determined to grab a shower before answering Brains's summons. He was still in his blues and fleetingly wondered where his cap might have gotten to after the wind blew it off his head. He'd lost count of how many had disappeared in such a manner.

All looked well with Thunderbird One and he tapped his fingers over the keypad by the exit door.

As the door slid open, his Father and Brains stood waiting for him. Scott opened his mouth to greet them, but when they each raised a hand, he stopped.

Both of them held a IR standard issue handgun. Brains's was loaded with a blue stun cartridge. Jeff's was red, which meant it was live. If he fired, he would intend to kill. Both men aimed their guns straight at Scott's chest. He blinked, his hands automatically rising in the air.

"What's going on?" he said, his heart thumping in his ears.

"It's alright, Scott. Relax," said Jeff softly, a haunted look in his eyes, familiar and wrenching to see.

"Relax? Dad, you're pointing live ammo at me."

"It's, uh, standard procedure in, uh, this situation," said Brains nervously.

"What situation?" said Scott, his voice ringing loud with confusion.

Jeff reached around to the back pocket of his pants to retrieve a pair of handcuffs.

"Listen to me, son. I need you to take your gun out of it's holster and place it on the floor in front of you."

Scott didn't need asking twice and kicked it over towards Brains's feet for good measure. He was too stunned to talk.

"Good. Now put these on." said Jeff, placing the cuffs on the floor and stepping back. He never took his eyes off Scott, the gun remaining level with his son's chest the whole time.

Scott picked up the heavy cuffs. They were of Brains's design. Unbreakable. Loaded with electrodes and a paralytic drug. Once they were on, there was no way out. He felt like an idiot as he willingly clamped them over each wrist, the cold metal against his skin making him shudder in revulsion.

Jeff seemed calm as he gently took Scott's upper arm in his hand, leading him forward.

"Come with me. We'll explain everything."


	11. Pistanthrophobia

Scott and Jeff followed Brains into an elevator, passing the laboratory floor and the sick rooms. Scott didn't breathe a word, just determindly dragged one leg after the other. Anger smouldered in him at this treatment. He couldn't understand why his father was wasting precious time they needed to find out what had happened to Alan. He reminded himself that he had been promised answers. Being impatient wouldn't help.

He was led into what was jokingly referred to as the 'drawing room'. It's where Jeff normally hosted special guests such as Lady Penelope or other old friends. Scott had only ever been in the room on the occasional birthday or Christmas, when he and his brothers would be up into the early hours of the morning putting the world to rights.

They stopped by a leather chair, standing beside a table laden with wires and equipment. There was a white plastic stand that Scott recognised as a portable brain scanner. He had last seen it used on John when Brains was tracking the progress of his illness. Alongside the scanner, Brains was fiddling with a monitor. He looking uncharacteristically flustered. He was often excitable, in his own way, but Scott had never seem him like this.

Scott tried not to betray his anxiety as he was seated in the leather chair alongside the table. He rested his cuffed hands on his lap and looked up at his father, who stared down at him with an unreadable face. He still held the handgun, aimed at Scott's chest.

"We'll do this quickly, son," he said, "I'm sure there's an explanation."

"An explanation for what?" Scott hissed, unable to suppress his frustration any longer, "What the heck is going on?"

Jeff ignored him as he addressed Brains.

"Everything ready?"

Brains popped his head up from behind the monitor, stepping over towards Scott.

"Uh, yes, Mr Tracy," he said, "I-I-I've reprogrammed this scanner to, ah, detect lying-specific brain patterns."

"You're using a lie detector on me?" blurted Scott.

Brains began fitting the top of the scanner device around Scott's head, which slipped over his forehead like a white headband strung with wires.

"Ah, yes, Scott. I assure you, it is painless and accurate. You see this, ah, infrared laser spectroscopy will shine i-i-invisible infrared light through your skull and reflect it off the brain to reveal activity-"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," said Scott, "Please spare me the details and get this done."

"Son," said Jeff warningly.

"Father," returned Scott solemnly, "At least tell me if there's any progress? Do you know who did this?"

Brains stepped back from fitting the scanner before eagerly grabbing his clipboard, gripping it in one hand while the other gestured frantically.

"We have a-an awful lot more to go on than I a-a-anticipated. I-I-I cannot share those details a-a-at present."

"Then why am I here?"

Brains pursed his lips and looked towards Jeff.

"Uh, Mr Tracy, I suggest you sit yourself in front of Scott."

"Why?" asked Jeff.

"I-I-I feel it will help with the results."

"Well, if you think so..."

Jeff pulled over a wooden chair, antique oak, sitting himself a couple of feet directly in front of Scott. The pair of them avoided each other's gazes out of courtesy.

Brains almost mumbled to himself as he studied the readouts on the scanner, "Preliminary readings suggest you are experiencing severe anxiety..."

Scott sat taller in his seat. "I don't... No. I'm not feeling anxious. Maybe a little degraded."

"Oh, ah, that answer is reading as a lie," said Brains with infuriating certainty.

"Lovely!" Scott snapped, feeling his face burn. His father tapped a hand on his knee, forcing him to look up into his dark steel eyes, "There's no shame in fear."

Scott nodded stiffly. He took a deep breath, "Yes or no answers, right Brains?"

"Correct," said Brains from behind him, "Let us begin. Is your full name Scott Tracy?"

Last time he checked. "Yes."

"A-A-Are you a pilot?"

The whirring of the scanner was distracting. "Yes."

"Let me show him the footage," his father said abruptly.

Brains hesitated for the briefest moment, clearly wanting to delve further into Scott's intriguing neural patterns further. He reached behind the monitor for a video tablet, which he dutifully passed to Jeff. He tapped on the screen before holding it up for Scott to see.

"Scott, do you remember this?"

Scott squinted at the small screen and recognised he was looking at video footage from within the cockpit of Thunderbird One. He knew from the way he was slouched back in his seat, hands massaging his temples, that this was from the morning of the attack on Thunderbird Two. The timestamp confirmed it.

"Yes," he said carefully, "I had just returned from transporting casualties to Cooper Hospital."

As he spoke, he watched himself on the screen suddenly freeze and go still. He thought perhaps the footage had paused, before he saw himself rise up higher in the pilots chair. His expression remained frozen as his hands tapped out on his comms and then console unit with incredible speed.

"What..." Scott began.

Suddenly he saw himself lurch forward in his seat, hands clutching his head. He appeared to be breathing heavily. After a few moments, he watched himself answering the radio.

"I-I-In those few seconds," Brains said, "You sent a command to open Thunderbird Two's lower hatch. Of course you, ah, ah, have clearance to do so whenever you like, so Thunderbird Five wasn't alerted."

"But I-" Scott gasped.

"You let the terrorist in," said Jeff without emotion, "A female boarded Thunderbird Two and planted explosives."

"Father," said Scott, teeth clenched, breathless with terror, "I swear to you, I didn't do that."

Brains had gone silent, staring at the scanner readouts.

"Father, I don't know why... Or how... But I don't remember doing that. I remember my head hurting and answering a call from Virgil before the explosion, but I did not..." he hissed slowly, his cuffed and shaking hands rising to point a finger at the screen.

"Scott..." Jeff said, in a soft tone, a father talking to his employee and not his son.

It only added fuel to the raging fire of Scott's temper.

"I did not give that...

He didn't finish what he wanted to say..

 _'that... fucking command.'_ He had never sworn in front of his father before and wasn't going to start now. He suddenly got an urge to curl the pointing hand onto a fist and smash the screen, rip it from the wall, throw it across the room. It had been a long time since he had felt such a childish desire.

Brains spoke from behind him, "Ah, he's telling the, uh, truth."

Scott yanked the scanner off hard enough to give himself whiplash. He stood and marched up to Brains, brandishing his cuffed wrists, "Take these off me. Now."

"Brains, do as he says," said Jeff, "We're done here."

Furious and terrified, Scott barged out the room before he could act on his emotional impulses, accidentally knocking shoulders with Brains on the way out.

He heard the voice of his father calling his name as the door slammed shut behind him.

Someone, somehow, had got into his head. He had seen it before.

The Hood. It had to be The Hood.

* * *

After calming himself down, pacing stormily back and forth on the balcony of his room, Scott risked an update from Gordon. His little brother looked worse for wear, but when he heard the news that Virgil woke up his sigh of relief was restoring.

"Good old Virgil..." Scott sniffed, emotional tears building in the corners of his eyes, "Is he..."

"All there?" Gordon sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "It depends on your definition."

"What are you talking about?"

Gordon stared at him through the video feed, looking reluctant.

"Tell me," Scott said softly.

Gordon took a deep breath, another of his famous sighs of despair, before he spoke. "Scott... He was confused. He went a little berserk. I left to go and get myself a coffee. Up until that point he had been doped to the gills and wasn't capable of doing much more than open and close his fist. Then when I came back..."

Gordon took an agonised pause and Scott didn't press him further. After a while, his little brother continued.

"Well, how would you feel if you woke up with one of your legs chopped off? He's doing a little bit better now. I've only had to repeat myself three times when he last woke up," Gordon shrugged nonchalantly through the video feed on Scott's watch, but they were both hushed with concern.

"Does he remember anything from the accident?" asked Scott.

"No. He's only recently started talking but it's a bit... Slurred isn't the right word. Disjointed? Words come out in the wrong order. Anyway, he'd even forgotten that John had passed away. He kept asking to talk to him. Then he caught sight of a news report of the attack. Someone got great footage on their cell phone of Thunderbird Two crashing."

"My God..."

"I know," sighed Gordon, "It's like he's grieving all over again, in more ways than one. Wait, is that smoke? Are you smoking again?"

"No," Scott lied, moving his arm as far away from his body as he could to hide the evidence, "How's the security team Lady Penelope assembled?"

"Cranky. Clueless," Gordon sighed, "I'm keeping them busy."

"More like annoying them. Are you ok? Did you get any sleep?"

Gordon narrowed his eyes at him knowingly, "I've clearly had more than you. That, or you're hiding something."

"If I had news about Alan, you'd be the first person I'd tell."

"What have they found out? What do they know? Was it Wile E. Coyote?"

Scott again marvelled at Gordon's intuition. He'd not heard his brother's old nickname for The Hood for a long time. "Maybe."

Gordon blew out a breath, "If it is him, he's upped his game."

"He won't win," Scott agreed darkly.

"So you know for sure that it's him?"

"No, just a feeling. Don't think about it, Gordon. Look after Virgil. For me."

"Whoever wants to hurt him again will have to walk over my dead body first."

Scott's smile was genuine, "You're not half as threatening as you think you are."

"It's my charm."

"Look after yourself."

"Take your own advice," countered Gordon. The usual zeal was in his voice but his eyes were half closed with exhaustion as Scott shut down the call. He went back to his forbidden cigarette, his mind wheeling around in circles. A voice behind him made him startle.

"I thought you stopped smoking."

He half turned to Tin-Tin, who approached the balcony to stand by his side.

"I did," he said drily.

"Hmm," said Tin-Tin as she reached over his folded arms and delicately plucked his cigarette away from between his fingers. He expected her to flick it from the balcony but instead she took a long, deep pull. Her eyes filled with tears as she blew out the smoke.

"I don't know what I'll do without him," she said, trembling.

Scott nearly rolled his eyes and was inwardly disgusted by his own selfishness. The last thing he wanted to deal with was more of somebody elses pain. Yet part of him understood completely. He made an effort to comfort her, placing a hand at the top of her back for a long moment as they stood in silence.

"I need to, um... Get Rob down here. Poor guy," Scott said eventually, his need to lead, to organise the chaos, kicking into action, "I'll need Brains to scan me over, make sure there's no... Mind control gadgets ticking away in me. Then I'll get Thunderbird Three up to collect Rob. We'll need all hands on deck. If I've been compromised, then the worst I can do is self-destruct in space... That'd do them a favour, whoever's behind this..."

He stopped suddenly, rage embodying him and draining the last of his energy. He gripped the balcony and swayed. The cigarette had been a mistake.

Tin-Tin glanced at him, concerned, "Are you alright?"

The gentle question dissolved his anger in an instant. A rhetorical question, but the soft "no" was whispered automatically before he could stop it.

Her face was wet as she turned towards him, arms rising to take him in an embrace. Reflexively, Scott stepped back, but she ignored this and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She was so petite she had to force him to stoop a little, holding him tight and close.

Scott buried his face into her shoulder, dry-eyed and exhausted. He wanted to cry, just like he had done in Grandma's arms as a child, when Mom passed away. The night he had watched John die, Virgil had been the one who held him as they both wept.

In both those devastating moments, there was an instant where he was worried he would never be able to stop. He knew he couldn't break now.

"I'll find him, Tin-Tin," he whispered hoarsely, "I'll find out who did this and I'll make them pay. I promise."

Suddenly, John was talking in his mind, as if he standing with them both. There was a sad smile in his voice as he cautioned, _'Scott. Stop making promises you can't keep.'_

 _Shut up, John. You're not here._

Tin-Tin left him there to return to her daughter. Scott, knowing there was no way he would sleep, began his long walk towards Thunderbird Three's silo. Brains would have to wait to poke around in his head.

Each pace was a betrayal to his father, but he had work to do. The ten year old boy he once was feared defying his father to get the revenge he sought. He felt hollow with another realisation. All he knew lately was fear.

* * *

 **Author's Note - Thank you for the follows and favourites from the last chapter. They warm me like hot chocolate.**

 **Merry Christmas, lovely people!**


	12. Clinging

The morning seemed to arrive in the blink of an eye. Gordon had to pull himself out of bed, somehow feeling more exhausted than he had been when he had fallen into it hours ago. Rachael's jaw would've dropped, had she been present. She frequently, openly cursed him for his superhuman ability to smack his alarm off and leap out of bed as happy as a kid on Christmas morning. Such criticisms were normally followed by her draping an arm over her eyes and resuming her snoring, her messy brown hair a halo on her pillow.

Gordon's thoughts were only for her as he headed down to the hotel restaurant to order a coffee. Black. Loads of sugar. No breakfast. He couldn't stomach it since the attack. The buffet table, laden with eggs and bacon would normally be irresistible. Instead he just sat there, sipping determindly, just to have something warm in his belly. He fought an impulse to give Rachael a call, just to check she was ok. He was more homesick than concerned. His girl was a tough cookie and didn't need his protection, but she got it anyway. Especially now... Now there was a baby on the way.

A baby. His baby. He thought about what size it would be right now, picturing a little peanut with arms and legs. He'd pondered since the explosion what life would have been like for his wife, his child, if he had been aboard Thunderbird Two when it happened. If he had been the one maimed, kidnapped or killed, what would have become of them? After all this, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to answer an emergency call again. Yet he would. All of them would answer a call for help, a thousand times over.

He was leaving the hotel when his telecomm beeped. Scott must have been reading his thoughts, as his first words were "we're getting you home." He quickly informed him that he had not only collected Robert from Thunderbird Five but that he would also be sending him to Virgil's hospital within the hour. A plane had been arranged for Gordon to return back to Base later on that afternoon.

The information was essentially dumped in his ear by Scott. The comms were then shut down before Gordon could so much as twitch, let alone verbally respond.

"That was it? No 'Hi'? 'How's Virgil?' 'Just checking you're not dead yet?'" Gordon muttered to himself as he slumped into the taxi he'd called for.

He leaned back into the seat, the thick coat he had bought yesterday wrapped tightly around him. It didn't prevent him from shivering. The cold of London was cutting right through him. Even cranking up the heaters in the hotel room hadn't helped. He woke up having dreamt he was drowning in a frozen lake, trapped under a layer of ice. Then as he woke, his perspective flipped and he was looking into the water to see Alan's dead face staring up at him, shriveled and gray. The image stayed with him all the way to the hospital as the taxi inched through the rush hour traffic.

He now knew two things with absolute certainty. One - he was being kept out of the loop. Two - Scott was in a heap of trouble. He could tie his brain in knots trying to figure out why or he could focus on the task at hand.

The dream seemed to prepare him for what he would find when he finally reached Virgil's private room. He stood outside the door for a moment, hearing muffled noises inside. It was 10am and the doctors (or the 'top numpties', as Virgil had called them in Rob speak) would have carried out one of their daily checks on him hours ago.

Gordon pushed the door open, knowing in his gut something bad was waiting for him in there.

Virgil wasn't back on a ventilator, like he had feared.

He wasn't even in his bed, the abandoned blankets in disarray. His gaze tracked along the floor. To the drops of blood. A discarded dressing gown. A broken plaster cast, cracked open like an eggshell.

Gordon could hear the shower running. The blood trail led to the walk-in bathroom, facilitated for the disabled. For a moment, he thought that Virgil was gone. That somehow he had been kidnapped, too... Or worse.

That was when he found Virgil, in the bathroom. He was sprawled on the tiled floor, stark naked, the water from the shower cascading over him. The water was so hot that plumes of steam curled off his gleaming skin, but he was shaking and crying silently, his eyes tightly closed.

Gordon's mind whirled for a moment, unsure of what to do. Luckily he hadn't visited the ward alone.

Robert had walked in moments after him. Gordon was alerted to his presence after he had dropped his suitcase. It fell to the ground behind him with a surprisingly loud thunk. It rang out over the rushing of the shower and the whimpers coming from Virgil.

Before he could turn around, Robert barged past him instantly. He was so tall and broad that Gordon had no choice but to be roughly pushed into the doorframe.

He watched as Robert fell down on his knees in front of Virgil, placing his hands on his soaked shoulders. The drizzle from the shower soaked into the fabric of his shirt and into his hair. He wasn't gentle, his fingers digging into his husband's upper arms. Virgil opened his eyes and almost flinched away, confused. Robert continued holding him down against the wall.

"Virgil. It's me," he said, his voice wavering with concern.

Robert cradled Virgil's face with his hands, lifting it in an effort to force eye contact.

"Virg? Look at me... Can you talk to me?"

Virgil obeyed, finally going still and looking at him properly. He blinked. Water dripped from his lashes.

"Rob?" he whispered, incredulous.

"Yeah," said Robert, clearly relieved as he smiled at him.

"You're here?"

"Of course."

"No..." said Virgil, squeezing his eyes shut again, "I'm dreaming again. I dreamt... The nurses died. No... The nurses said I died..."

"Well, clearly you haven't," Robert said, a forced chuckle escaping him, "What are you doing here on the floor?"

Robert kept his tone light, as if they had last seen each other only moments ago, not as if he was being united with a man he almost lost. It seemed to be helping to calm Virgil down, tension leaving his body. His head lolled sideways before dropped forward onto his chest, as if it was too exhausting to look up. Gordon could see his brother's lips moving, but couldn't discern any words.

"He's in a lot of pain. He was trying to reach the alarm cord, I think. He's pulled his cast off," Gordon spoke aloud, not realising he was doing it at first. He was just saying what he saw. He didn't talk about the grizzly sight of Virgil's leg, where it now ended on the calf. It was now a swollen lump of stitched flesh that could have been a slab of meat from an animal. Blood was oozing from the stitches, mixing with the water from the shower.

Gordon turned his back, wiping his eyes. He hoped that Robert didn't see his face.

At the same moment, the shower stopped as Robert reached up and switched it off.

"I can get some nurses? Wherever the hell they are..." suggested Gordon to the empty bed in front in him.

"No. Give him a chance," hissed Robert at him from the floor, "Let us get him back to bed."

Gordon, having sufficiently composed himself, turned around to look Robert in the eye.

"We'll need to get someone to redress his stump"-

"Later," ordered Robert, not unkindly.

"No... No more hospital..." Virgil said feebly, "Let me clean up... Please... I need to go home..."

"And you thought it would be a good idea to just walk in here and have a shower?" chastised Robert, "Must've been rough. Have you seen what you've done to your leg?"

He casually grabbed some towels from the bathroom shelf, laying two over Virgil to cover his nakedness.

"I forgot. Sometimes it feels like my foot's still there..." said Virgil tiredly, "I can't... I had to crawl... It's... It looks like it was blown off."

"It wasn't, you know that," said Gordon softly, squatting down to meet his gaze, "We spoke about this. They had to take it off. To save you."

"It's not even that bad," said Robert, "You're not the first person in the world to lose a leg. I'll take the other one off myself if you keep behaving like a knob."

Gordon was relieved to see Virgil's expression change into one of amusement.

"Knob... That's a new one."

"I've got more," grinned Robert, "A glaikit knob with a gammie leg."

Robert was drying Virgil with the towels as best he could, quickly but tenderly. He was clearly doing his best to avoid the worst of Virgil's plentiful cuts and bruises. Blood continued to ooze from the stump, congealing on the tiles.

"Rob?" asked Virgil.

"Yes?"

"They took Alan," he said, defeated, as if he'd only just remembered that fact.

"I know. I was there. I heard it all happening."

"They took him..."

"Yes, they did. I know. They took him. We'll get him back."

"But Rob..." Virgil swallowed, his voice suddenly becoming thick from tears, "He's so young. A daddy... They should have taken me. Why didn't they take me?"

"Don't say things like that," said Robert, his tone dropping almost sternly, "You don't say things like that to me, you idiot. Come on, Gordon. Let's get him up."

Between them they managed to haul Virgil up and half carry him back into his bed. Moving his stocky deadweight was no easy feat and Gordon could feel sweat running down his back when they were done. They didn't dress him as there was only a bloodied hospital gown on hand. He continued to protest and mutter as they covered him with thin blankets, making sure not to let them touch his painful stump. Robert glanced at Virgil's notes before reattaching his IV tubes back into the catheter on his arm. He upped the morphine dose slightly for good measure, as Virgil was almost writhing from the pain. As the drugs hit his system, he calmed down almost instantly. Within minutes, his body sank into the bed as he was pulled down into a deep sleep.

As Robert pulled up a chair at his bedside, he pondered aloud if the medication was causing hallucinations and would ask the doctors about changing it. He reached out to interlock his fingers with one of Virgil's hands before gently kissing each knuckle, tracing his own fingers over the scarred and bruised skin. He gave an almost embrassed smile up at Gordon, as if he had forgotten he was there.

"It's funny, when you told me about his foot, I was glad," whispered Robert, into the skin of Virgil's palm, "I was glad it wasn't a hand. He told me once that he's terrified of losing his hands. More than losing his sight, or his hearing. He couldn't stand the thought of not being able to paint, to play piano... To fly his machine..."

Robert's eyes filled with tears and he couldn't talk any more. Gordon nodded his understanding and knew it was time for him to depart. The changing of the guard had occured and his brother couldn't be safer.

He returned an hour later to say goodbye, not wanting to be late for his flight. He peeped into Virgil's room and saw that Robert had begun to weep. He was leaning forward to plant a kiss on Virgil's forehead. His brother half-opened his eyes at the contact, the bliss at being pain free plain in their warmth. When he saw who it was sitting beside him, a corner of his mouth twitched into a tiny smile. He squeezed Robert's hand before he slipped back into sleep.

Gordon didn't dare disturb them. He walked away, a sudden lightness in his step. He realised he was feeling relief, feeling for the first time that at least one of his brothers truly would survive this.

THREE MONTHS LATER

"Come home."

The words were spoken softly. A plea. It wasn't the first time this evening that he'd begged like this. The sun was beginning to set outside, the heat in the lounge still intense. The radio crackled, giving away a presence on the other end of the comms. He waited, murmuring Mississippi's to himself to try and summon some patience. No reply was forthcoming.

He pressed the black button on the desk again, a low and ugly note of desperation in his voice.

"Scott, turn around and come home."

There was still no reply. Eventually he gave a defeated sigh and hauled himself out of the chair, rubbing the back of his neck. He was about to abandon the desk in a temper but stopped, losing heart. He backtracked to the button and savagely depressed it one more time.

"I'm going to bed," he announced into the microphone, hoping Scott would be jarred by his anger. Not all of it was feigned.

He was three slow steps away when he finally heard the voice he'd been longing to hear, trembling uncharacteristically.

"It's not your call, Virgil," mumbled Scott, stating the only fact that was in his favour.

Virgil hobbled back to the desk, half sitting on it to reply into the comms.

"No," he admitted begrudgingly, "But I know when enough is enough."

Scott had been gone for days chasing a ghost of a lead, jumping at every useless clue that Brains uncovered. The whole island didn't dare to get their hopes up anymore.

"It's my fault," said Scott.

"Yes," agreed Virgil, "And it's my fault for getting myself blown up. It's Gordon's fault for dragging him out into the open instead of letting him set his ass on fire. Heck, it's all John's fault! If the bastard hadn't have died we'd all be in this lounge together right now having a beer."

"Virg-"

"I'm not finished. Didn't you learn the first time a rescue killed someone we love? Blaming yourself won't bring him back. You've done all you can."

"He's not dead, Virgil," snapped Scott, "I know you all think I'm insane, but I can't ignore that feeling. I won't."

Virgil lowered his head. Arguing with Scott about this had become a daily occurrence.

A few weeks ago, Lady Penelope and Parker had managed to track down the vehicle that took Alan. It was sighted near the south west coast of England, abandoned on a country road. A couple of agents traced it's route and had discovered a bunker that had long been cleared out. They discovered empty prison-like cells, cluttered and reeking of bleach. The rooms had been cleaned, but well enough to remove traces of blood, bone and hair. Brains had the unpleasant task of confirming everybody's worst fears. Some of it belonged to Alan L.

Virgil himself had stood in that cold, gray room where his brother had been murdered. His new lower leg, one of the best prosthetics money could buy, was aching abominably. He could still feel his goddamn toes from his long-dead foot and they hurt.

His imagination got out of control, conjuring all the horror and pain that his brother must have felt in his final moments. He felt himself physically reel from such tormenting thoughts and realised his father was beside him, offering him an arm to hold him steady. He stared unflinchingly at the room, his dark eyes alight with anger.

Scott never stepped into the room. He and Gordon were doing all they could when International Rescue was called, but Scott would always circuit above the west coast of England before returning home. It was driving everybody crazy.

Virgil felt like the only person that was confronting his big brother's inability to let go. Back in the lounge, his thoughts were interrupted by Scott's voice ringing through the speaker on Father's desk.

"Virgil?"

"Yes?"

Virgil heard Scott take a steadying breath through at the other end of the comms before he spoke again.

"Do you remember the night John died?"

"How could I forget..."

"I know, I know... Just listen to me. You know I hate talking about things like this."

Virgil knew it all too well. They had both bared their souls to each other that night, animalistic and howling in their grief, almost embarrassing. Yet neither of them had spoken about it since.

"That night..." continued Scott, "I must have slept. I don't how, but I did. I wasn't due to see John for another five hours or so, but... I lay down for a just a minute. Then I got that feeling. Like a jolt. You know when you're about to fall asleep, sometimes you get that feeling like you're gonna fall? Only this was... Like a warning. Like someone shouted me awake. I swear I had just heard John's voice, I couldn't have. He was in a coma..."

Scott paused to gather himself, struggling through the emotions being dredged.

"Before I went into the sick room," he continued determinedly, "I knew he was..."

Virgil sniffed and let a lone tear track down his face.

"With Alan," said Scott, "It's different. I keep expecting him to come racing out of his bedroom every day because he's slept in. Virgil?"

There was a long pause as Virgil forgot that his brother was waiting for a response. He had been too busy concentrating on trying not to break the spell of Scott actually opening up for a change. He pressed the radio button and cleared his throat.

"Yeah, Scott?"

"What the hell is wrong with me?"


	13. Hope

Scott dragged his feet up into the lounge, small clouds of dust trailing behind him. He was surprised to find to find the place deserted. The sun was blinding, filling the room with golden heat. He knew Grandma would give him grief for bringing dirt into the room, but he didn't have the energy to do anything about it. He was hoping his father would be at his desk to get a report on the rescue, but the chair was unusually vacant.

He knew that Gordon had returned home long before him. Maybe he had debriefed with their father already.

Scott had returned from his usual post-rescue circuit around the west coast of England. It was the last place where Alan had been and he flew over it as often as he could get away with. At first there was a genuine need for such scanning from the skies. Months on, it had become nothing but an obsession.

He knew it was pointless. He also knew how much it was eating up Virgil. He kept reminding him that Alan was gone. They'd done everything they could to say goodbye. Scott wondered if he would one day be flying over that shore as an old man, looking for signs that had been washed away decades ago. Did they burn Alan? Did they put him in a shallow grave? Or did they simply throw him in the sea?

Like a sleepwalker, he numbly strode to the crystal decanter filled with whiskey. He poured himself a glass and downed the generous measure in two gulps. He grimaced as the burning liquid slid down his throat.

 _Bad_ , he thought sadly to himself, _Stop that now_.

He forcefully placed the glass back in it's place. He was already regretting his actions as the alcohol pooled in his stomach, leeching into his bloodstream. He savoured the wonderful tingling at the back of his neck, the warmth spreading through his stomach... A few weeks ago, he would have generously filled that glass and sneaked off to his room with it.

He decided on a shower instead. He was almost out of the lounge, practically one step from the door, when Gordon's voice shouted behind him.

"There you are! Hop-along needs you downstairs."

Scott turned to see Gordon's smirking face sticking out from behind the door on the opposite side of the room. He reflexively thought 'You really need to stop calling Virgil that'. He knew it would be wasted breath. He was grateful he hadn't followed through with the idea of taking more booze to his room. He didn't want to get caught behaving like that again.

"Can it wait?" he asked tiredly.

"Nope, 'fraid not," said Gordon, "Sorry, Scott, I know you're just in but he wants you to see something. I have a feeling it's something big."

It was always easy for Gordon. All he'd needed was a shower and food and it was like he had been reset.

Scott followed him down into the vast hanger where Thunderbird Two lay sleeping. She needed her rest after getting back in action, finally back to her former glory.

Brains had outdone himself. With a few extra modifications from Virgil, she was in good health. Vast and beautiful as ever. The first day Gordon flew her he didn't even try his luck with any lines such as 'What does this button do again?' or 'I'm veering left!' It probably didn't even cross his mind. The joy that had once been the undercurrent of Gordon's every action had been lost with his only little brother and Scott knew, with certainty, there was no retrieving it. He'd experienced the same thing when John died.

As they approached the east side of the hanger, Scott discovered the reason the island had seemed so quiet. Everyone had been summoned to the hanger. Kyrano and Tin-Tin leaned against the outer wall of Virgil's small office, conversing quietly. Rachael was sitting on one of the stools Brains used, resting her growing bump. Seeing Gordon she was about to stand up but he didn't let her, walking behind her to loop two arms around her front and plant a kiss on her neck.

Brains was at his desk, having an animated conversation with Jeff, leaning over a desk. Grandma was by his side, staring down at what Scott already knew to be a drawing of Virgil's.

He clicked. The day had finally come.

"Oh, it's, uh, so much more than that," said Brains as he spoke to Grandma with almost boyish excitement, "Not only will it handle any terrain or weather condition, it will respond to the wearer by thought. This mitigates any gait problems that are common seen, which of course back pain, muscle imbalances..."

Before Scott could speak to them, Virgil emerged from his office, preceded by little Janna. She ran out of the door as fast as her chunky legs could carry her, holding a silver prosthetic leg high above her head.

Brains looked aghast. "Uh, oh, h-hey Virgil! Maybe she, uh, uh, shouldn't-"

Virgil flapped a lazy hand at him, "Oh, come on, Brains. She's been trying to get her hands on it for weeks... And if she could break it then we really need to review the design."

"That's your top secret project?" said Gordon, as Janna waddled past him still holding the leg aloft like a prize, "Well, I hope it's jet-propelled or I'll be sorely disappointed."

"Everyone here?" asked Virgil, pointedly ignoring him as he scanned the room.

"What about Rob? He wouldn't to miss this," said Grandma.

"It's alright, I'll surprise him in person," said Virgil, "Gordon. Don't you say a word!"

"I wasn't going to!"

"You were thinking something, I could tell, I could feel that rotten smirk from here."

Once Tin-Tin had plucked the leg from her frustrated daughter, Virgil took a seat in front of Brain's desk. He carefully unfastened his standard prosthesis, which looked like nothing more than a metal pole with a shoe attached. He gave his stump a quick clean and dry with cloths from the first aid kit.

As the shiny new leg was attached, there were exchanged glances and smiles as the bionics whirred to life with gently pulsating green lights. It was beautifully made, from the carbon fibre calf to the intricate detail of the silvery foot and toes. Virgil leaned back in the chair, stretching both his legs, flesh and metal, in front of him. Scott noticed the renewed symmetry of his frame. The custom prosthetic had the same dimensions as Virgil's own leg, a welcome difference to the old metal pole with a shoe. Under clothes (or daresay, under a blue uniform) you now wouldn't be able to tell that he had lost a limb at all.

"Oh, this looks fantastic!" Virgil's face lit up with a beaming grin.

"How're those bionics powered, Virg?" asked Gordon, mesmerised.

Virgil tapped and then folded down his left ear, revealing what looked like a pulsating green button attached to his skin, "It's connected to the nerve endings in my leg. I think, they respond."

To prove his point, he looked down at his silver foot. Slowly and deliberately, every toe twitched and moved. "See? It's like having my leg back. Easier than breathing!"

"You two need to share this one," saud Jeff, clearly impressed, "This kind of technology could change a lot of lives."

"Don't speak too soon, he hasn't tried it properly yet," said Gordon.

Suitably spurred on, Virgil lifted himself out if his chair and took a few tentative steps. Brains muttered analytically the whole time, but the tell of success was evident in Virgil's face. Scott felt a warm rush such as he hadn't felt in a long time, seeing him looking so... himself.

The tentative steps were greeted with applause, which abruptly ended when Virgil suddenly took off at a breakneck sprint. He ran all the way down to the end of the hanger, slapped the side of Thunderbird Two with a metal thunk and ran his way back to his jubilant audience. After a final flourish of three continuous cartwheels, Virgil landed right in front of his father.

"So, Dad, when do I start?"

Jeff grinned and embraced him, chuckling.

Scott suddenly felt the sting of tears in his eyes, but was saved by the buzzing of his father's telecomm watch. Jeff clapped Virgil on the shoulder before flipping open his watch.

"Go ahead, Robert."

"There's been a distress call from the coast of Norway. They're struggling with a sea rescue, a couple of people swept away by the water. It sounds like they're still alive but the weather conditions are putting the coastguards at risk," said Robert succinctly.

Scott watched his father and wasn't surprised when he looked right at him, shaking his head.

"You know I can't let you go out again. You need rest."

"It sounds like a quick one. I'll be back in a couple of hours," Scott protested.

"I'll be the one in the water, Father. I can handle the hard work," added Gordon.

"It's not your capability I'm questioning, son. It's the conditions," sighed Jeff, shifting his weight on his feet. He took a lot longer to reach a decision then he would have done a few months ago.

"They could always just assess it in person, Father," said Virgil, "There's no harm in looking."

Every one in the room knew that a Tracy never flew to an emergency just to look.

"OK, go," Jeff said eventually, "Watch yourselves."

As if they didn't know that, already.

* * *

Scott had never seen the Norwegian coastline before. It was a spectacular sight - thousands of kilometers of islets and fjords nestled in an inviting blue-green ocean. All the land curled and crinkled like a silk scarf, dark against the lowered afternoon sun. Once upon a time, he would have turned to Gordon and promised him a vacation there as soon as they had leave. Not today. In his tired state, Scott fantasised climbing the many peaks spread before him, where nobody could reach him again. It was in these silent journeys, when he didn't feel like talking, that he questioned whether his thoughts were his own. When your own mind had been invaded and weaponised to try and kill another, it was hard to think of little else.

Despite Brains's thorough scans and in-depth theories, they could never figure out how it had been done. Brains seemed determined for answers, but not just to satisfy his curiosity. Brains also knew how it felt to have lost control of yourself, to have your body betray you from the inside out. He was the only member of International Rescue to have seen the Hood up close, yet all he could recall were glowing yellow eyes that rendered him unconscious. The same technique that effectively paralyzed Tin-Tin, leaving her with the same vague memory.

Scott couldn't claim he had had such an encounter. He had no idea what happened to him that day in London, or who made him open the hatch of Thunderbird Two. Without the video footage, he would never have known it happened. All that seemed out of sorts was a pounding headache, which he had dismissed as stress at the time. Not having any answers was just as frightening as knowing their attackers were still out there. Yet, for Scott, none of this caused as much misery as the constant, subtle look of distrust he now saw in his father's eyes.

Knowing that your father, no matter how much he verbally denied it, thinks that you played a part in attacking your family... It was enough to awaken a little voice whispering in his ear _'It would be easy. Nose down. Crash into the ocean. End it all_.'

No more responsibility, no more doubt, no more grief.

Scott would smother such thoughts quickly, ashamed of his selfishness. He just wasn't that kind of man.

A tap on his shoulder. Gordon, already in his dry suit.

"We're getting close. I can see the coastguard's helicopter up ahead. What do we know so far?"

Scott tapped his console and Robert's face appeared. He went over the details once again for Gordon's benefit - a young couple had been walking along the cliffs when they spotted what they initially thought were two bodies in the water, dozens of feet below them. They quickly called the coastguards before the figures disappeared out of sight, the vast waves seeming to swallow them.

Gordon lowered his head a fraction. That tiny motion and Scott knew all hope had just been dashed from him. If they could get him down in the water at all, it was likely all he was going to be doing was recovering bodies.

"It's not looking good," sighed Robert,"The coastguards are advising us to leave, they've not seen anything to indicate there's anybody still alive down there."

"So I got dressed up for nothing?" yawned Gordon, his nonchalance not fooling anybody.

There were a few moments of silence as Robert's screen went black while he conferred with the coastguard. His face returned to the screen, looking haggard.

"Sorry that took so long," he said, "Thunderbird Five's translator hates Norwegians even more than Scots, apparently..."

"What did they say?" asked Scott.

"They kindly advise us not to attempt a rescue," said Robert, annoyed.

"Noted," said Gordon, striding over to the floor hatch that he used for air-sea hoists. He grabbed a sling he used for victims and began strapping it onto his harness.

"You're not expendable," said Scott, "I don't want you going down there if there's nobody to save."

Gordon gave him a cold look. "All or nothing, isn't that your words? It could be kids down there, for all we know. Besides, I've done this a hundred times. If there's anyone down there, I'll see them."

Scott could only nod, "But! Listen! If you see nothing, do not get in that water."

"Yes, sir," said Gordon determinedly as he threw himself backwards through the hatch, toward the churning, frothing waters below.

"I still wonder whether he's extremely brave, or has a death wish," said Robert through the video feed, amused.

* * *

Gordon was right. He got down there and found a woman in the water in a few short minutes, a miracle in itself. When she was safely hoisted up into Thunderbird One, Scott tried unsuccessfully to revive her while Gordon returned to the ocean.

It was then that things went horribly wrong. After running their heat signature equipment one last time, an extremely faint sign of life was detected. Having just lifted a lifeless woman out of the water, Gordon made the decision to untether himself from his harness and swim out towards the victim on his own.

Scott could have killed him, if he wasn't busy trying to save someone else.

The woman Gordon had pulled from the water was lying sprawled on the floor, her white tank top and black trousers askew. Her bare feet had toenails that were varnished blood red. A curtain of wet black hair haloed around her head in an inky pool.

She was long dead. There was no heartbeat and her skin was paper white, tinged with gray. She was a slight thing, with Asian features. Beautiful. With a heart jolting thought of Tin-Tin, Scott knelt down on the floor and quickly brushed the woman's soaking black hair from face and attempted mouth to mouth resuscitation. The CPR motions felt completely unnatural and he stopped his attempts after a few minutes.

He shuffled himself backwards on the floor, leaning back against the wall to try and recover. He was on the verge of complete physical exhaustion and it was long beginning to show.

"I'm so sorry," said Scott, meaning it from the bottom of his heart, "Even if I could wake you... I think the brain damage..."

He looked down at the woman sadly. His brothers all thought it was strange when he talked to the victims like this, even in death. All barring John, who once said to him 'It's ok, I get it. You're respecting them.'

Scott didn't add that it was also his way of apologising, because he's the one in charge and every mistake falls to him.

He took a deep breath and informed Robert that they had one casualty. He hauled himself to his feet and arranged towels over one of the med bay beds in Thunderbird One.

Once the bed was padded with towels, Scott gathered the woman into his arms as delicately as he could. She may have been slight, but her soaked body made her as heavy as a tonne of cement. He placed her carefully onto the med bay bed and secured her there with the safety straps. He then tucked a couple of towels over her frame and then finally a blanket. He knew that without her body heat, she wouldn't get any less soaked, but it felt wrong to leave her looking cold. He did cover her face with the blanket to preserve her dignity, all the while talking to her, telling her he would bring her to the hospital and they would sort her out properly.

His radio had started buzzing furiously as he ensured the woman was secure. He answered to Robert, who was looking distraught.

Scott felt his guts plunge, a cold stab of fear in his chest.

 _I blacked out again_ , he thought, _I know I have. I know I have_.

"Scott," cried Robert, "The coastguards have Gordon, he found the second victim."

"What? Why wasn't I told?"

"There was no time," said Robert, "He had drifted so far that they figured it was better for them to pull him out instead of you."

 _So maybe I didn't black out..._

He depressed a button on his console, causing his side window shutters to slam open with a crash of steel. Scott peered out into the dark red light of the lowering sun, seeing the helicopter in the distance, a long rope hoisting a figure out of the water.

A body as limp and lax as a doll.

"Rob," asked Scott, fear coursing through him, "Is that Gordon I'm seeing?"

* * *

Scott made it to the hospital before the helicopter and he was absolutely seething. Anger was better than fear. His father had taken the same approach in his reaction and Scott's ears rang with his shouts over the radio.

"They said Gordon's not hurt, Dad. Calm down. I'm moments away from the hospital," Scott said placatingly, his teeth gritted so tight he was worried they would crack, "I'll let you know what's happening when I find him."

He shut the comms down for Tracy Island, then Robert's when he started tutting from Thunderbird Five.

As he exited his craft he caught a trolley being wheeled into the roof entrance of the hospital, surrounded by bustling medical staff. He couldn't see the victim properly through the swarms of people, but he knew from the bare pallid feet on the end of the gurney were not his brother's. A second victim and judging by the urgency of the numerous medical professionals, they were in a bad way. Possibly DOA - dead on arrival.

"Shit..." Scott murmured. It was always hard when somebody died, but Gordon always seemed to take it the hardest.

That thought was confirmed when Gordon stumbled from the helicopter and out on to the helipad. As soon as his feet touched the ground, it looked like his legs would buckle under him. One of the coastguards behind him reached out to help, but Scott got there first, sprinting like a madman.

His brother was looking ill, his burnished copper hair flashing in the twilight as it blew around his face. Scott got an alarming wave of déjà vu. He was transported back to the past. The person he just saw on the stretcher might have been Virgil, bleeding and on the brink of death, six short months ago. He held Gordon's shoulders gently, his anger disappating into overwhelming concern.

"Hey, are you ok?" he asked, catching his breath, "Gordon, look at me. What happened?"

Gordon stared at him for a moment, then down at his hands. On impulse, Scott took them. He was shocked by how icy cold they were in his grasp, scraped and raw. His brother still stood, staring downwards.

"Gordon?" Scott shouted, grabbing his shoulders again, "What is it? Are you hurt?"

Finally, his eyes shifted up to look at him. They were red, the amber irises alight, a tear trickling down a cheek as he blinked.

"Me? No, no... No, I'm not hurt." His voice was strong, but forced.

"OK, good," Scott sighed, looping an arm around his shoulders. He tried moving Gordon in the direction of the hospital entrance, but he seemed rooted to the spot.

"What is it?" Scott asked, "Come on, we need to get you looked at. Dad's having a heart attack because of you."

Gordon shook his head, tried to speak. He looked like he was about to be sick.

"Scott. I just pulled Alan out of the water."


	14. Sleep

Scott wouldn't believe it until he saw it. The doctor beside him continued talking as they paced slowly down the hospital corridor, but he was barely tuning in.

"...we've discovered a severe infection in his lungs," said Dr Ralton softly, "The intitial MRI also showed scarring in his left lung-"

"At birth, Alan's lungs collapsed," said Scott, "He had asthma as a child but he's had no trouble with it as an adult. Could that cause scarring?"

"Most definitely," she said, "We couldn't access any medical records, so..."

"I know. I'm sorry. In our line of work, secrecy is paramount."

"I understand..." she paused for a moment. Scott recognised her behaviour as slightly star struck, something he could never get used to.

"We had him on a ventilator initially but he retained conciousness on his own. He's breathing well without help, for now," she said reassuringly, "A miracle considering the circumstances. He's resting."

"I want to see him. Confirm the ID."

The doctor was taken aback by the authority in his voice, "O-of course, yes. This way."

Scott followed her on a short walk round to a different ward. She stopped outside of an isolation room, the interior dark.

"This is his room. This ward is for intensive treatment, which he doesn't require," explained the doctor, "We'll move him to a different area soon."

Scott opened the door and stepped softly into the room. It was peacefully dark and quiet inside, punctuated by the steady bleeping of a heart monitor. He let his gaze wander cautiously over the sleeping figure on the bed, suddenly aware of his pounding heart. The young male who occupied it was not familiar to him. He was painfully thin, almost emaciated. As Scott took a careful step closer, he began to make out some details of his face. He had a shaved head, the scalp covered in multiple nicks, scrapes and oddly shaped burns. His gaunt face was purple with bruises, an oxygen tube draping over his sallow cheeks and under his nose.

"It's him," said Scott, almost mechanically, "That's my brother."

"Ok," said the doctor, "I'll let the police know you confirmed his ID. They'll want to speak to you."

"Sure."

"Ask at reception if you need me."

She left him there.

Then the figure on the bed stirred and his eyes suddenly opened, as if startled. Even in the darkened room, Scott recognised them. He felt a cold wave of dizziness wash over him as reality struck.

"Alan?" he gasped.

His brother tried to whisper back "Hello" but all that came out was a dry squeak. His eyes rolled shut, as if he couldn't physically keep them open.

Scott sat on his bed beside him, so Alan could feel him there.

"I'm here," he told him.

Scott sat there his bed for hours, talking when he needed to talk and crying when he need to cry.

Alan was too weak to communicate at first and slept on, oblivious to the fact that he had essentially returned from the dead.

Scott couldn't wait to tell him.

Eventually Alan woke, his hands and arms twitching as if he emerged from a nightmare.

"Shh, shh," said Scott softly, "You're alright, you're alright."

"I know," Alan croaked groggily, "Hospital. I can't believe it, though."

He closed his eyes again, exhausted.

Scott risked a question.

"What happened to you?"

Alan swallowed, his eyes still closed. "A window. I jumped."

Scott waited for more but nothing happened. "Anything I can get you?"

"Can I talk to Father?"

"Of course."

"Oh, and am I allowed to eat yet? I'm starving."

Scott smiled and took his hand carefully, trying not to laugh. He was pretty sure food was a long way off but didn't want to say it.

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Author's Note - Short and sweet to break me in gently :)

I've abandoned this fic for a baby - sorry! Now he's bigger I have the luxury of time to write.


	15. White Coat Man

Scott had once promised to never step in a mortuary again.

There a lot of promises you break for your brothers.

The hall of the hospital mortuary was small and clinical. The place smelled too much like bad memories. There was nothing you could do about the cold air or the unmistakable stink of formaldehyde.

Alan stood alongside him, having refused the wheelchair the nurse had offered back at his room. He could walk slowly, holding onto his older brother's arm. It had been less than forty eight hours since he had been pulled from the ocean and he was fighting off pneumonia with the persistence that only Alan was capable of. The drug withdrawals were hitting him even harder. The police were waiting for a statement from him before he was free to be signed out of the hpdhospi and taken home.

This current task was optional, but Scott was going to help his brother through it even if it killed him. He offered Alan a reassuring look.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to. We can turn around now."

"I have to see her," said Alan resolutely, staring at the door in front of them.

His youngest brother turned his head to look at him, his mouth tight with anxiety. Scott had to work hard to keep his gaze locked onto his eyes and not staring at the multitude of scars and bruises that covered his face.

"I appreciate you coming down here. I know, when Mom"-

Scott cut him off with a nonchalant wave, all false, just as the door was opened by the mortician.

"We're ready for you," he informed the two waiting men.

Scott and Alan stepped slowly into the small room, containing only a shrouded figure on a steel table. When they were inside, the mortician unveiled the body. Scott felt his brother's bicep tense imperceptibly under his fingers. His own breathing momentarily stopped.

For an instant it was his mom there, with her high cheekbones and chestnut hair. His heart gave a hammering thud. In the next blink, it was the drowned woman he had tried to revive on the floor of Thunderbird One. She had been meticulously cleaned. Even the red nail polish had been removed. Her sleek black hair had been carefully combed.

She looked like she was sleeping.

After a few long, silent moments, Alan asked to leave. Scott took him back to his room, where more dread awaited them in the form of two police officers. They would not be leaving without their statement. Alan asked his brother to wait outside.

* * *

Scott was still waiting in the corridor when his watch beeped. He silenced it quickly and disappeared into a vacant room before answering the call. His father's face appeared.

"Father? How goes the rockslide?"

Jeff Tracy had a relaxed brow and pride in his voice.

"It's been slow going but they've shaved a couple of days off the local rescue efforts, at least."

"How's Virgil doing?"

"He's finding it difficult getting back into it. Still, the new leg is working well. I got Rob down here on standby just in case."

"Alright."

"How's Alan?"

Scott gulped, realising too late his reaction would be plain to see. His father understood immediately.

"Has he spoken about the kidnapping at all?"

"No. Wait, he..." Scott struggled, knowing what will happen if he's honest, "He says he doesn't remember anything."

"And you believe him?"

"Dad, I"-

"That's a no, then," said Jeff decisively. "Ok, son. This is what you're going to do. I don't care how you do it but you need to get the truth out of him before he can set foot on the island."

"Father, it's"-

"Do not interrupt me. I know you better than you think. I will not have another son bottled up over here ready to explode, considering everything that's happened. There are women and children on this island to think of. Can I count on you?"

 _He's your child, Dad. This should be your job._

He realised his father was watching him, waiting for an answer.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Back in the isolation room, he helped Alan to get dressed in his civilian clothes. Both of them were jarred at how he looked in them, painfully thin and sick. Afterwards, Scott took him down to the hospital café on the pretext that their father was coming to collect them.

Alan insisted he wanted nothing to drink as he sat down carefully at a table, but Scott went up to the counter anyway. He mused silently on how much Alan had loved hot chocolate as a child. He settled on two lattes.

They sat across from each other at a small table in the café, their silence filled with questions.

"How's Tin-Tin doing?" asked Alan.

"She's still in shock. Wouldn't you be? But don't worry. Virgil's taking care of things. Last I heard he had taken Janna off her hands so she could get some sleep," said Scott.

Alan's lips quirked, half a smile, "I can't believe that girl still won't sleep."

Scott took a sip of his coffee, before carrying out his father's instructions.

"The police said you couldn't remember anything... About what happened to you?"

Alan's hackles were up instantly.

"I know what you're doing. You want me to talk."

Scott looked away, chastised.

"Alan..."

"He thinks he can keep me here? Using my need to see my family against me, like he's grounding me as a kid? He's still the manipulative bastard he was back then."

"Alan," Scott said warningly.

He thought Alan would leave, but his brother barely had enough energy to sit up at the table, let alone stamp away in a temper.

As awful as he felt, Scott knew his father was right. Alan could try and put up a façade of being unscathed, but Scott could see right through him. He noticed the tiny beads of sweat forming on Alan's hairline and upper lip. He also observed the rapid flicking of his brother's gaze as it went from the front exit, to the side exit, to the front exit, to the stranger that just walked in, then back to the side exit again. Scott casually glanced down at Alan's right hand, gripping his coffee cup just a bit too tightly.

It could easily be put down to the drug withdrawal symptoms, but Scott had been there before. He felt a painful tingling in his nails and he had to fight to suppress a shudder. He needed his little brother to be better than him and do what he couldn't do all those years ago.

"Who was she?" said Scott softly.

Alan didn't look from the exit as he snapped, "What?"

"The girl," probed Scott, "The one that was pulled from the water with you."

There was a brighter flash of anger in Alan's eyes.

"The one now dead on a table because of me?" he hissed, loud enough to make a few heads turn their way. He looked down, looking like a frightened little boy.

"Yes," Scott replied, his tone even more soft, "Who was she?"

Alan winced as his anger melted into grief. His head fell into his hands and he took a deep breath.

"Siti. Her name was Siti."

"What happened to her?"

"Scott. I don't know where I start..."

"I need you to try. Please."

He watched Alan struggle with his words for a few moments, before he offered "You don't have to tell me yet. I could make something up to Dad, if-"

\- "Of course I'll tell you, Scott," he groaned, his head still in his hands, "I'm glad to be able to just be here, to talk to you again. I'll tell you."

Alan took a deep breath again, the rattle in his chest more pronounced. He steadied himself.

* * *

For the first few days, all he knew were sensations.

Warmth. Darkness.

Cold. Light.

Hunger.

Warmth. Darkness.

He was trapped. The same straps constantly pinned him down. The cold table under him soon got replaced by what felt like a bed, but the ceilings were always blank and gray. That was the only thing he could see.

Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would dream. He would dream of a car, the rumble of the engine under his legs and the rush of movement as he pressed the accelerator. Better than sex.

In bed with TIn-Tin, as he became lost in her delicious warmth and her intoxicating perfume of sweet roses and musk. In those times, he was the luckiest man in existence.

The elation of a newborn in his arms, so frail and miraculous. He had made hundreds of promises to her - that he would protect her, that he'd always be there...

Sometimes he felt the rush of leaving the ground, the pull in his bones as he left the launch pad far behind him.

Then there were the nightmares.

A dark, encompassing rain that he couldn't find his way out of. A constricting of his neck. He was suffocating.

Then he was holding a broken body, a cold deadweight in his arms. He had never seen a dead person before. He heard a voice behind him, deep and wonderfully comforting. 'Here, I'll take him. It's alright. Get back to Thunderbird Two...' He loved the man very much, but couldn't recall his name or his face.

The dreams were few and far between. It depended on whatever drugs they were using. Most of the time, his world just cut to black only for him to awaken in what felt like a few seconds.

 _''They will come for me. They will come for me. They will find me. They have to.'_

Then there would be the echoing clomping of heels, the vice grip on his wrist and the sharp sting of the needle.

As the drugs hit his system in a creeping, numbing fog, Alan would beg, writhe, scream... It didn't matter. The woman, and it was always the same one, never responded. She wouldn't even look him in the eye.

He was always baying for her blood, his useless anger flooding him, as artificial sleep swallowed him once more.

It could have been years that he had been here. He had no awareness of the passage of time. The world sharpened only for it to predictably fade once more.

They couldn't keep him like this forever. Or so he hoped.

One time he groggily came to his senses to see a man standing over him. He wore a white coat. He looked vaguely familiar, but Alan couldn't figure out why. He was middle aged, tall and broad. He grinned at him smugly.

"It normally takes longer than this," he said, almost admiringly, "But you're not responding like our previous subjects had."

Something was telling Alan he had missed a lot of the day already. He had been here before, but before he could follow that thread of memory, he was suddenly overcome with dizziness. This quickly gave way to a cold tingling feeling as paralysis set in. He was falling unconcious. No, not unconcious... It was the drugs, a new cocktail.

He tried to speak, but all that came out was garbled noises. His tongue felt frozen to the floor of his mouth. Panicking, he tried to raise his head. It took more effort than lifting a car. A hand slapping down on his forehead thwarted his efforts. There was a thump as the back of his skull connected with the metal table.

"Let it do it's work. Now, don't bother trying to talk," White Coat Man said flatly, "It'll mess with my scanner."

There was the sound of a switch flicking and the room grew alarmingly dark. All he could hear was his own rapid breathing, then the flicking of console switches...

Then there were lights. They flashed and blinded him.

Suddenly he was standing at the sink of his hotel ensuite, brushing his teeth.

Tin-Tin's voice sounded from the bedroom. "Alan. Come here, see if you can feel this..."

Intrigued, Alan spat his toothpaste out in the sink and hurried into the bedroom. He was a little disappointed to find Tin-Tin standing with her top lifted to show her midriff, rubbing her tiny belly. He was hoping she was up for a little action, but lately she had felt far too sick.

Her smile was cautious, inviting. She took his hand and placed it on the low swell of her stomach.

"Imagine," she said softly, "that there's an egg under my skin."

"Ok..." said Alan, feeling a little foolish. What would this accomplish?

She placed a hand on top of his, encouraging him to press a little harder. Her stomach felt firm, but that was all he could feel.

"Tin-Tin, I don't think-"

"Keep going!" she giggled.

He sighed. Seeing her excitement, he closed his eyes and gave it a real try. He pressed his flat hand around the right side of her belly, then the centre, then...

"What's that?"

He felt it, just like she described. Like a small egg under her skin.

"It's there. I can pinpoint it," he said, mightily proud of himself.

"Yes. That's your baby."

The lights were back, painfully bright. He couldn't escape them. There was a sudden explosion of pain behind his eyelids. The drugs were wearing off.

"Please! Please, stop this! I don't know what you want me to do! Just make it stop!"

He felt again felt the spasming in his neck, like a cracking whip. Suddenly the lights were gone.

As he blinked away the red dots distorting his vision, Alan beheld a sea of green. To his right was a vast tree, twisted and knotted from it's many years of growth. A crude rope swing swayed there, hanging from one it's thick branches.

He liked the tree, but he wasn't tall enough to reach the swing. Scott was, but only just.

He became aware of a whimpering sound coming from behind him. After he made his way through the grass, he saw Virgil, underneath the teeter totter. He was lying on the ground and crying hysterically. A thin trickle of blood was oozing down his face.

He froze, staring at the blood. He didn't know what to do. Grandma was out shopping for groceries, he knew... And Father... He would be in the house. But the last time he had knocked on his door, Father yelled at him. Father wouldn't help.

"I want Mom. I want Mommy..."

Eventually, seeing no solution, all he could was sit down and cry beside his brother. That was how Grandma found them, half an hour later, when she returned from her shopping.

The thrumming in his head had increased dramatically as the memory faded. Alan felt his minimal stomach contents rising up his oesophagus. Still paralysed, he feared for a moment that he was about to choke on his own vomit. Somebody removed his straps and turned him on his side milliseconds before he was finally sick. He retched pitifully for what felt like an eternity.

"Siti, the compazine. Quickly," barked the White Coat Man.

Alan gasped as there was an alarming sting in his neck. Then he felt burning as a liquid was injected there. There was a clap of a hand on his back.

"That'll stop the nausea. Ah, what a day! Such a good sign!" the cold man declared triumphantly, almost in a singsong, "I told them you were too good to throw away. Great progress."

Quivering in humiliation and pain, Alan couldn't even move his eyes toward him. He wanted him to look in his eyes and feel the pure fire of his rage.

Don't you touch me, you psychotic bastard. If I could move right now your head would be nothing but a bloody red pulp...

"Uh, oh. Look at that activity! Someone's in a mood again. Siti, take him back to his room. We'll remind him of his manners another day."

He was trollied back to his bare cell, still strapped to the bed. Once he was alone, his anger gave way to crippling fear.

'I won't die here. They're coming for me. I know it. I know they're coming for me.'

* * *

"I didn't hold on to hope for too long," said Alan softly, staring at his coffee that had long turned cold, "They had armed men to drag me to where they needed me to go. Even when I took a piss, or was washed. They were always there. At first I fought them. I spat, tried to kick. I even managed to bite one of them once."

He rubbed one side of his face, where a dark bruise circled his eye socket.

"That's where most of this came from."

"Do you remember what they looked like?"

"I think they were Malaysian, like Kyrano and Tin-Tin."

"What about the marks on your head?"

Alan looked perplexed, "I don't know. The drugs made it hard for me to think. They must have operated on me a few times. Sometimes I'd wake up with a pain my throat, like they'd used a tube down there. Like when I had my tonsils out as a kid."

Now it was Scott's turn to be perplexed. Alan still had his tonsils, as far as he knew. Before he could remind Alan of that, his brother continued talking.

"It was Siti that changed everything. She saved me. We spoke to each other once, back in my room after a session with White Coat Man. She was trying to feed me rice, but I didn't want it. I still wanted to kill her. She told me not to fight. She said they will kill me, then they will kill her."

Alan paused and looked into his Scott's eyes, a hitch of anger in his voice. "Her exact words were 'They hurt me, then kill me.'" I realised that she was just like me. A prisoner. She was terrified, Scott. Since fighting and screaming wasn't an option anymore, I tried the opposite. I cooperated and didn't resist. Just like you taught me."

Scott said nothing, but continued listening intently. His comm beeped but he ignored it. There was no way to answer without potentially breaking Alan's reverie.

"Once I started behaving, they got lazy pretty quick," said Alan, smirking, "Eventually they didn't even bother strapping me down, or using the trolley to move me between rooms. The day I escaped, I could tell they were using less sedatives on me. Or they might have used something weaker. I could walk without feeling my legs would collapse under me. My head was a lot clearer, too. They walked me out to see White Coat and the route led me past a window. Siti was following just behind, as usual. I remember thinking 'I'm sure I heard gulls on the other side once.'"

Alan tried to continue but the words seemed to stick in his throat. Scott waited until he recovered himself.

"I saw my chance. I grabbed a gun off one of the gaurd's holsters," said Alan, "Then... I pulled Siti to me."

Alan moved his arm towards his chest, reenacting the motion as he spoke.

"I put the gun to her head. I had no intention of firing, I just thought it would buy me time to think. Instead, one of them fired but the shot missed. It went past my ear. It broke the window behind me. Scott, I'm sorry, I know jumping wasn't a good idea..."

"You had no choice." Scott wanted to reach out to him but stopped himself.

"I did," said Alan sorrowfully, "I could have just let them shoot me. I didn't mean to pull Siti with me.."

Scott, almost relieved, saw tears fill Alan's eyes. It was a good sign. It meant he was processing everything on some level.

"Scott?" whispered Alan, wiping his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his top.

"Yes?"

"Please don't tell Father. I don't want him to ground me."

 _'Don't make promises you can't keep.'_

"Sorry, Alan. You I know can't do that."

* * *

Once Alan was back in his room, Scott found an empty bathroom to pace in. He tried hard not to boil over. It didn't work. With a yell he slapped his hands against the tiled wall of the bathroom, hard enough to make the bones in his arms ache. He decided it was still better than punching.

When he had calmed down, he knew it was time for another betrayal. He put in a call through his watch.

"Scott Tracy to Brains?"

"Uh, yes, Scott?"

"You'll need to set up scans on Alan. I don't know what they've done to him but it sounds like they've tried messing with his brain. He was talking a lot about surgical procedures, old memories. Flashbacks, disorientation."

"Uh, well, hopefully if they did there will, uh, be some evidence of brainwashing i-i-if that were the, uh, case."

"There was no evidence with me, remember? And we still don't know how they got in my head." Scott reminded him bitterly.

"I-I-I guess we'll just have to, uh, be on our gaurd at all times and see how he is."

"Sure thing. Tell Father I did what he asked. I'm taking my brother home." Scott instructed Brains sternly, letting the scientist know that he did not want to speak to his father right now.

* * *

 **Author's note - Wow, thank you for the wonderful reviews. It means a lot. I try my best to get back to all of you individually.**

 **My previous fic 'Even as a Shadow' has been given new cover art, courtesy of the kind and talented Lady Razorsharp :)**


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